Athena's Prodigy
by justplainrii
Summary: The life and times of L, from childhood to adolescence and beyond.  Everything from the first meeting with Watari, to L's first case, heirs, and encounters with romance.  Not everything will be as you expect, however...
1. Hermes' Good Graces

"Quillsh, I think you're absolutely off your rocker," Roger said for what seemed to be the trillionth time, glancing in his colleague's direction from the other side of their limousine. "Flying all the way out here? To some... godforsaken, outdated-"

"Roger, please," Quillsh replied, gently, waving off the criticism with his hand. "It's only a visit, nothing permanent."

"I know, Quillsh, but the things we've_ heard_," Roger replied in mild concern, knitting his fingers together on his lap. "I think this one is positively beyond hope, even for _you_." Quillsh closed his eyes and smiled ever-so-slightly, knowingly.

"You've said that for several others, Roger," he said, opening his eyes and peering over his glasses; the light from the sparce lanterns outside illuminated his face with orange light for a brief moment, then plunged him in darkness again. "There's hope for these children yet, and this one is no exception."

"Yes, yes, I know, I know, but... you can't save them all, Quillsh," Roger replied, somewhat worriedly. His long-time friend's philanthropic activities were becoming somewhat bizarre in recent years, a fact that left him quite unsettled. Why he didn't settle for granting scholarships to promising students, make hefty donations to museums, or even settle for simply _funding_ his orphanages was beyond him, but Quillsh was insistent of being hands-on in the care of children he sheltered with his establishments. After opening his first orphanage in England several decades past, he began to show an interest in especially aiding the ones he affectionately regarded as "difficult," although Roger would hardly choose so gentle a term to describe them; many a night he had to nurse the odd bite wound on an arm or hand, or clean up a shattered bowl cereal smattered against the wall during a temper tantrum.

And yet, Quillsh seemed to have the patience of a saint, continually dealing with these adversities, day after day, without complaint. It was hardly unusual, though, considering the time he had poured into creating the fantastic improvements to technology he had built his vast fortune on. "They'll canonize you any day now," he mumbled, caught up in his own string of thoughts.

"What was that, Roger?" Quillsh asked, and Roger shook his head.

"Nothing, nothing," he replied. "How much longer, do you suppose?"

The automobile stopped moving, almost in reply.

"It seems we've arrived," said Quillsh, as the chauffeur opened the door, and he smoothly exited with a grace that belied his age. "Come now, out we get. Quickly, let's get inside. I'm very excited about this one, and else I'll catch a cold out in this weather!"

"One thing at a time, my friend," Roger chuckled, and glanced at the institution they were visiting on that clear, November night. The stone building stood starkly against the crisp night sky, littered with stars. Light shone through a few of the barred windows, windows that looked out onto the barren landscape of mountain and pine.

"'St. Mary's Institute for the Mentally Unsound'," he read, noticing the metal plaque affixed to the front of the building as he followed Quillsh to the entrance. "'Established 1912, AD.' My goodness, what a place," he added, a note of disapproval in his voice.

"Hardly a home for a child," Quillsh noted, approaching the large wooden door, and firmly grasping the brass knocker. "Shall we see if anyone's home?"

Sighing in mild amusement and exasperation, Roger nodded, and the knocker was used three times. The door opened, and a weary-eyed woman stepped forth, dressed in jeans and a sweater, an identification tag clipped to her belt.

"Yes?" she asked. "Are you the representatives from the orphanage?"

"Yes, indeed, and you must be Miss Eleanor," Quillsh said graciously, bowing slightly. "We spoke on the phone."

"Yes, yes, come on in," the woman said, ushering them forward with her hand. "We were expecting you, although not quite this late. I suppose it's for the best, though... the kid barely sleeps at all."

"Really, now?" Quillsh said, curiously. "What do you mean?"

"What do I mean?" Eleanor echoed, leading them down the hallway, gliding sublimely on her way. "What I mean is that in all my time here, watching him, I've never seen him sleep at all. Not once! It's _bizarre,_ to say the least."

"Intriguing," said Quillsh, and Roger sighed exasperatedly. "Where are you keeping him?"

"A private room in one of the sublevels; he tended not to respond when he was put near a window, he likes looking out of them," Eleanor replied, reaching a door and ushering downward. "We've been able to speak with him a little more, at least. We have no idea what to do with him, and with God as my witness, I hope that there's some hope left."

Leading them to a simple wooden door in the dark hallway, she opened it and stood aside, letting the gentlemen in before closing it behind her. They entered a small, dimly lit room with a plain lamp hanging unlit over a table, a few chairs arranged about it.

Embedded in a wall was a large sheet of glass, the light behind it providing a substantial glow, while a closed door beside it indicated there was a room beyond.

"Is the child in there?" Quillsh asked, gesturing in the direction of the extension, and Eleanor nodded. "Might I go inside and speak with him a moment?"

"I don't know..." she replied, biting her lip slightly and collecting her hands. "If you did go in, you'll come out disappointed; the boy will hardly-"

"I'm fully aware of that, my dear," Quillsh replied eloquently. "Please; mere observation, at least."

Eleanor nodded and crossed to the door, reaching in her pocket for a key, and opening the door. Nodding slightly, Quillsh entered the room, and the door closed behind him.

Roger borrowed a chair and sat by the glass, and observed that the room was painted a pure white color, stereotypically associated with insane asylums and other similar institutions. Looking beyond where he saw his friend walking, he searched the room for anything resembling a child.

And then, he saw it: A small boy, huddled in the corner, glaring in rage, his hands cradling a pair of knees that were drawn up by the face.

His hair was black and unkempt, and the limbs left uncovered by the oversized tunic and pants were scrawny, and appeared unhealthily thin. Quillsh cautiously approached the child and stood there; the child stared back with wide, black eyes. For a moment, there was a connection between them, when Quillsh turned to take off his jacket and place it gently on the floor. Roger watched him bend to eye-level with the child, who pulled his arms and knees closer to him, and knit his small, bony toes together.

"I'm sorry if I'm prying," Eleanor said, standing at the other side of the glass to observe for herself what was going on, "but I'm not quite sure I understood what your complete aims were when we spoke on the phone last week. Are you planning to adopt the boy...?"

"Not adopt, persay," Roger explained, "I'm sorry if you're somewhat confused. No doubt you've heard of The Wammy's House?"

"Somewhat; it's on the news occasionally," Eleanor replied. "It's a group of international orphanages, right?"

"Correct," Roger nodded, glancing through the glass, where Quillsh and the child were still staring at each other. "He opened the first about... thirty years ago, was it? His wife died around then, and I believe she's the one that motivated him into it. There _is_ a reason why it's called '_The_ Wammy's House' rather than the singular, after all."

"Yeah..." Eleanor said, in a hushed voice. "I didn't think that you'd be dealing with the mentally-"

"Not quite," Roger interrupted, adjusting his glasses a small amount. "Mentally-challenged is how most regard them, but when it comes to Quillsh..." He chuckled softly, seeing his friend change from a kneeling to a sitting position beyond the glass. "He prefers to call them 'difficult,' rather than 'challenged,'," he continued.

"But you still do, right?" the woman asked. "Care for orphans that require more-"

"Attention; yes, I suppose," Roger continued, interrupting her once again. "We hear about them through other hospitals and the rest of our orphanages; those cases are sent to our Winchester House, where he can work with them more... personally, I suppose."

"That sounds like a good plan," said Eleanor, somewhat nodding and agreeing with herself. "Mr. Wammy... he has a heart of gold, doesn't he?"

Roger chuckled softly, as Quillsh shifted his position slightly; the child mirrored him, almost, loosening the grip on his legs. "I suppose he does, I suppose he does," he said softly. "So, this child is an orphan. Do you happen to know of his past?"

"Oh, this one?" Eleanor said, glancing at the panel; it appeared that Quillsh was speaking to the child, who didn't seem to be listening. "Let's see... I think we received him from St. Matthew's just a month ago, and that's in... Wyoming, I think? I have no idea where he came from initially, or the circumstances of his... orphaned... state." She trailed off near the end of her sentence, thinking unnecessarily hard on the subject.

"Right..." Roger said thoughtfully, and Eleanor cradled her elbows in her hands as she glanced towards the exit.

"I suppose when you speak to Dr. Hammond, you can see all that information," she stated. "It's all in the charts, anyways."

"Eleanor, I thought you would be down here; the guests have arrived, I take it?"

A smooth voice came from the entrance as a doctor came into the room, clipboard in hand.

"Dr. Hammond, I presume?" Roger said, rising to shake the man's hand in greeting.

"Roger Cohen, as well?" Dr. Hammond replied, firmly grasping Roger's hand, a smile spreading on his thin lips. "Where is Mr. Wammy?"

"He is with the child, Doctor," Eleanor said gently, gesturing towards the panel of glass.

"Ah, so he is; how kind of him to be so compliant with the inconvenience of the time," Dr. Hammond said, absently tapping the clipboard with his pen. "I'd like to speak with him as soon as possible, about the current situation of things; open the door, and you may return to your room."

There was a soft tapping on the door to the extension, signaling that Quillsh had already finished his business with the child. Eleanor hurried to the door and opened it for him, and the middle-aged man stepped forth, his coat slung over one arm, and a pleasant smile on his face; after giving a curt "Good night," to all of them, she exited.

"Dr. Hammond, a pleasure to finally meet you," Wammy said, nodding and offering his hand for a handshake. "Shall we proceed with the negotiations? I'm quite happy to report that we may not have to stay long."

"Goodness," Roger remarked, "what's this about?"

"Roger, I do believe," Quillsh said quietly in passing, as he took a seat at the table with Dr. Hammond, "that I've found the one I've been waiting for."

"The 'one'?" Roger said, returning to his seat in mild confusion. "What are you talking about, Quillsh?"

"I'll get to that," Quillsh said, an air of mischievousness in his tone. "Dr. Hammond, my initial interests in the child have been justified, and more. I may ask that he accompany us back to England."

"Quillsh!" Roger exclaimed. "What brought this on?"

"You made a connection? You spoke?" Dr. Hammond said, mildly interested. "That's quite impressive, Mr. Wammy, but you do have a reputation for such things."

"I'm flattered, Dr. Hammond," Quillsh said humbly. "I see a great deal of promise for this one, and his behavior is manageable."

"Manageable... the definition of that word changes from day to day," Roger chuckled, in somewhat of a jest. Quillsh chuckled gently in recognition.

"So you wish to bring the child with you?" Dr. Hammond asked, pursing his fingers together. "I'm fully aware that the facilities of your Winchester House are some the best."

"We do pride ourselves in that, sir," said Quillsh, modestly gazing at his lap. "I must say that the boy will thrive much better in our environment than constant transfers between hospitals and institutions. It's the best for him."

"That's all well and good, except for one thing," Dr. Hammond said, chuckling somewhat as he gazed over the chart. "You should rechoose your pronouns, I think."

"Pronouns?" Roger echoed, greatly confused. "What do you mean, Dr. Hammond?"

"The child is a girl," Dr. Hammond said gently. "An easy mistake to make, but the chromosomes don't lie."

Wammy and Roger sat there in slight shock, and each turned to take another glance at the child in the corner, that they were certain was male; there were no discernible female characteristics, other than the slightly long black hair. Was there a mistake? And yet...

"Goodness, I feel oddly surprised," Quillsh said, taking off his glasses and wiping them; his eyes appeared quite small without the glasses to frame them.

"I can't tell at all..." Roger said, bewildered.

"That won't change your decision, will it, Mr. Wammy?" Dr. Hammond asked, and Quillsh shook his head firmly.

"Not in the least. It's just somewhat of a surprising discovery, Doctor; I would never have suspected," he said. "In the realm of the brain, gender is of minimal importance."

"Eleanor didn't refer to her as a boy in front of you, did she?" Dr. Hammond said, somewhat disdainfully.

"Come to think of it, I believe she did," Roger said thoughtfully, prompting a slight sigh out of the doctor.

"She doesn't spend much time down here, don't mind that," he said. "Not many of the faculty know. She denies being female insistently, from what we can get out of her. Mr. Wammy, were you able to speak with her?"

"Only a small amount," Quillsh replied. "Tell me, is there any significance to the letter 'L'?"

"Did she tell you that?" Dr. Hammond asked, and Quillsh nodded. "It's her name; her preferred name, anyways," he replied, pointing at something on the clipboard. "Elle Lawliet is her birth name, but she prefers to spell it with a single letter, rather than E-L-L-E. She's very aversive to gender-specific words and such. A letter is much more asexual than a name, after all."

"Interesting," Roger said, glancing at the child once more. She stared back without emotion, and it sent chills down his spine, so he focused himself on the conversation. "How old is she?" he asked. "It's quite difficult to tell."

"According to our records, she is... 7 years old, as of last month," Hammond reported. "We have her birth certificate in our records."

"Ah, that's right," Quillsh said thoughtfully. "Tell me, do you know what orphaned her?"

"Mm... I believe that she was given up for adoption, Mr. Wammy," he replied. "It's the best guess I can make; we have very little information on her. The whereabouts of her parents are unknown."

"Tragic," Quillsh said, poignantly. "Was it due to her-"

"I highly suspect that it's because of her behavioral differences, Mr. Wammy," Dr. Hammond interjected. "She has proven very difficult to other institutes, and I was very thankful that you agreed to come for a consultation, of sorts. _We_ weren't causing any positive change, at any rate."

"My pleasure, Doctor," said Quillsh, pleasantly. "Helping these children is my life's work, and I place more importance in them than my own inventions."

Dr. Hammond and Roger both laughed a little at this statement, and Quillsh joined them.

"Do tell me, how might we arrange for her transport into England?" Wammy asked. "Does she require special treatment?"

"Constant observation would be desirable," Dr. Hammond said thoughtfully. "She can be somewhat unpredictable, especially when it comes to moving vehicles and such. I think that a comfortable transport would be best for her. Her transfer from St. Michael's was done in a cushioned vehicle; she seemed somewhat partial to it."

"How about... we try regular transport, for once?" offered Quillsh. "I see no reason why not."

Dr. Hammond thought on this for quite some time, fiddling with his pen, before looking up.

"If you believe that to be best, Mr. Wammy, then by all means," he said, rising from his chair. "At the moment, I think, rest would be a better thing to be preoccupied with than transportation. I'll have paperwork for a transfer completed by tomorrow morning."

"Excellent!" Quillsh said, his face practically illuminated with happiness. "Are the rooms I requested available?"

"Of course they are," Dr. Hammond said, smiling. "I'll show you there myself, Mr. Wammy."

As the men began up the stairs, Roger turned around to glance at the glass wall yet again.

"Tell me... does he, er, _she_ not sleep, as Eleanor said?" he asked. "Shouldn't we turn off the lights for her?"

"Elle strongly dislikes darkness, Mr. Cohen," Dr. Hammond said smoothly. "She finds sleep in her own time, you don't need to worry about her until she is in your care and keeping."

Somewhat uneasily, Roger laughed. And still, the girl stared out into nothingness, the recesses of her mind imagining strange and wonderful things, stacking higher, higher into the air.

A small smile crept up on her thin face, and L closed her eyes; she lulled against the corner in sleep, while Roger and Wammy were shown to their accommodations.

"Fascinating," she said, with a satisfied sigh, and did not wake until morning.


	2. The House of Phoebe

"L, look what you've done! Oh... Dear Lord and heaven above..."

The smell of bile filled the air as L made yet another disgusting noise in her throat, and vomited her dinner on the formerly pristine, white carpet. Roger tried hard not to lose his own lunch at the revolting smell, and held his nose with one hand, scooping the girl under the other by her waist, her face still flecked with the vile remnants of what had been a savory potato soup. A somewhat unreadable expression graced her face as she delicately dragged a finger down the side of her sallow cheek and observed the slime it collected, with the perpetually-astonished look in her deep eyes.

"Quillsh! She's done it again, come down here immediately!" he called in desperation to the upper level, shifting the child further into the crook of his arm and praying her stomach wouldn't be upset again. With a scornful glare, he looked at the child; the child looked back, her finger poised on her lower lip. "Whatever are we going to do with you?" he sighed, and in an almost shrug-like gesture, L looked downward at her handiwork and thoughtfully observed how the vomit was beginning to saturate the carpet.

"I have made quite a mess, have I not?" she said, her wispy voice roughened by the recent ejection of her meal.

"Yes, L, you have," Roger replied, his faltering voice signaling that he was having a tough time of keeping his gag reflex at bay. Daintily, he stepped over the puddle of filth and called into the hallway. "Quillsh! I need you!"

"Right; sorry, Roger," the man in question replied, his graying head popping from the top of the stairwell with the usual smile, "I was making a visit to the toilet. What's the matter, now?"

"It's L; she's made a mess of yet another supper," Roger sighed, unplugging his nose and resituating the girl so that his hands rested under her armpits, and he held her out in display; she squirmed uncomfortably at the contact, and her spindly fingers vainly attempted to pry Roger's strong hands away from her.

"Ah, so she has," Quillsh replied in a nonchalant manner, leaning slightly to the right, viewing the mess in the room beyond; his eyebrows raised in mild interest. "L, you know that's very, very unhealthy."

"I am fully aware of that," L replied in a very uncomfortable manner, continuing her attempts to wriggle out of Roger's grasp. "I strongly dislike that sort of food. It is not pleasing to the taste."

Quillsh sighed and adjusted his glasses, a weak smile of unintentional humor directed at the small child he had taken under his wing only one month before, who was glaring at him with her wide, black eyes, legs wildly flailing beneath her. A month, he suspected, he would not forget for a good long while.

The journey back from St. Michael's was, surprisingly, a calm one. Despite Roger's frequent protests, L ("We must use the name she prefers," Quillsh had stated, when the subject arose on one particular leg of the journey, by car, "even if it is very nearly the same as her original one.") sat between them on the lengthy journey back to the United Kingdom, crouching atop her seat in an odd manner and refusing to wear the seatbelt unless required, and not touching the food provided, hardly saying a word to either of them. And these were but the first of her... eccentricities.

It was not yet her first day at the Winchester house when she was found wandering the hallways at an ungodly hour (after sleeping practically the entire afternoon), taking mental note of seemingly every fixture in the building; Quillsh gently urged her back in bed, and she stayed there until morning. She was waiting, alert as ever, perched at its foot bright and early the next morning. The wanderings were a fairly common occurrence from then on, and Roger and Quillsh made it a habit to have her within sight, else she scamper off to some hard-to-reach corner of the house and refuse to budge.

He also discovered an aversion to any sort of garment that was remotely feminine or clingy, and spent nearly an hour trying to strike a happy medium with the girl. After several angry, incoherent screaming bouts on behalf of the child, and an incident which involved her scampering down the hall in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts (the aids were beside themselves, trying to distract attention from her escapades), she seemed placated after dressing herself with a shirt and pants that were baggy, and much too large for her small, waifish frame.

"Comfortable," she had said, feeling the cotton of the shirt with her fingers. "I would like more, thank you very much."

With a genial smile, Quillsh had settled to allow her that wardrobe, and had more ordered later that day.

Another quirk of the child Quillsh had observed was her terse, formal way of speech. True, she hadn't said more than five words each day immediately following her arrival, but she gradually became more comfortable with her surroundings, and consequently began to speak more and more. Whether it was asking for a meal, or a book, or complaining about a bath, it still sounded like it came out of a college textbook or some other tome with origins seeped in the academic.

And, regarding food, L had the most critical taste of all.

She had a rather vexing habit of vomiting or spitting out anything that wasn't remotely sweet, and it had Roger and Quillsh both quite befuddled. This behavior was preventing her from receiving adequate nutrition, and her current, emaciated state wasn't aiding matters at all. She was given a sweet, nutritional shake at breakfast, and she was rather partial to it, sipping it through the straw in a manner that displayed neither contentment nor disgust. The later meals of the day were more experiments for them to find what L liked to eat and what she didn't, rather than opportunities for them to get her fed; the shake was providing enough to sustain her at the moment, but they needed to find out other options, should she ever go out in public to dine with either of them. So far, savory foods such as normal bread, meat, and vegetables were met with opposition, while fruit and milk were received relatively well. Sweets and cake, of course, L would eat without question.

"It makes me wonder," Roger had noted one afternoon, while cleaning up after her once again, "what causes a child to have such an aversion to healthy food?"

"Children love sweets," Quillsh replied, smiling gently.

"Yes, but consider this," said Roger, unsatisfied with the answer. "To go so far as to vomit out a single slice of bread? It's a little extreme. Something must have happened to her in the past, to cause such a hatred."

Quillsh simply nodded his head, not answering; it was a typical action of his, and returning to the current situation, he found himself doing it once again.

"I'll get her cleaned up, Roger," he said gently. "Come here, L, take my hand; we'll be off to the bathroom and have you all clean."

Roger sighed and placed L on the floor, where she bitterly glanced in his direction before hesitantly joining Quillsh, lightly grasping his thumb with her own thumb and forefinger. The pair began down the hall, when Roger was reminded quite strongly that a puddle of vomit still existed on the carpet.

"Quillsh, what do I do with this??" he asked, desperately, his face wrinkling in disgust.

"Have it cleaned up, I'm sure someone else would be willing," Quillsh replied, leading L down the hallway. Roger sighed as they began up the stairs, and went to find an aid to get the filth off the floor.

The man and the girl came to a bathroom on the second floor, and with a fluid movement of the wrist, Quillsh had warm, pleasant water pouring into the luxuriant bath, and he rolled up his sleeves in preparation for the task ahead. L simply looked and listened to the cacophony of noise coming from the tap, her thumb poised on her lip.

"Come now, L, let's take off these dirty clothes," Quillsh said gently, reaching for the bottom of her shirt, but her small, thin hands tightly clung to his, and she glared back in rebellion. "All right, do you want to do it yourself? You can't take a bath with your clothes on, you know," he chuckled, and L nodded. Carefully, she lifted her shirt off her head and squirmed out of her pants, then stood with her back to her caretaker, giving him a wonderful view of her bony behind. Quillsh couldn't help but laugh, as he turned off the water.

"Into the tub we go," he said, ushering towards the warm water. L carefully dipped her toe in the water, then the rest of her leg, and slowly immersed herself in the warmth. There she crouched, her knees drawn to her chest, her dark eyes bugging out at him, as Quillsh fetched a small cup out of the cupboard. Dipping the cup into the water, he poured it over her, and she cringed slightly as the moisture rolled down her thin, knobbly back.

"Now, L, we mustn't make such messes after dinner, you know," he chided, pouring another cup of water on her head. L lifted one of her spindly hands and held a small strand of hair between her fingers, watching as it slowly became saturated and wet.

"I know, I just dislike the taste of those foods," she replied, and stuck the strand of hair in her mouth; it slipped out shortly afterward, when Quillsh poured another cup of water on her.

"We'll have these dirty clothes laundered soon," he said, and finished dousing her head in water. "Close your eyes, L, I'm going to put the shampoo in."

"I like the shampoo," L said, closing her eyes tight as Quillsh reached for the rose-scented goo in a bottle. "It smells very nice."

"Of course it does," Quillsh replied, lathering a good amount of the stuff in his rough hands, and rubbing it into L's hair. She giggled, in a rather awkward way, as he went, and it caused him to smile quite unexpectedly; while she was indeed becoming more comfortable to his touch, the fact that she laughed was quite a delight for him to hear. "What's so funny?" he asked

"You are being very vigorous," L replied, in all seriousness, although a small smile graced her face.

"So I see," Quillsh said. "You know, we should practice some of the Spanish soon."

"That's boring," L replied, and Quillsh chuckled; the girl had been taking lessons in Spanish since she arrived, and was learning the language with surprising skill. He planned on introducing her to French or German next, and then maybe a more complex language, like Russian or Chinese.

"Boring because you understand it?" Quillsh asked, and she nodded. He fetched the cup, which was bobbing about in the water, and rinsed the suds out of her hair. "Well, perhaps we'll make a trip to Spain in the coming months, and you can see how good you are then."

"I'd rather like that," L replied, her shoulders rising with the rush of water.

"Speaking of visits and things..." Quillsh said, taking a bar of soap and rubbing it onto a washcloth, "L, do you like solving puzzles and problems?"

"Yes," L replied.

"Would you perhaps like to come with me and visit the police?" he said. "I'm sure they'd like to meet you." L was silent, and Quillsh put the bar of soap back where it belonged. "L?"

"...will the police have guns?" L asked softly.

"Well, of course they will," Quillsh replied, beginning to lather the soap on her back; she tensed at his touch this time.

"I don't like guns," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. "They're loud and they take..." Her voice trailed off into an inaudible whisper, and she clutched her knees even tighter, her fingernails turning white from the pressure.

Quillsh continued to gently rub her back with the cloth, and moved on to one of her arms; it remained clamped to her knee. "L, let go," he said, softly but forcefully, but her grip did not loosen.

"...I don't like guns," she said.

"I understand," said Quillsh, "but please, let go?" Her fingers slowly lessened their hold on her knee, and the limb came loose; Quillsh began washing it gently. "Did something bad happen with a gun, L?" he asked her, but received no answer. In silence, he washed her other arm, then her legs, when he unexpectedly said something.

"I do not mind the police," she stated, "but I do not want them to use their guns."

Quillsh took careful mental notice. "If I ever arranged a visit, would you like that to happen, L?" he asked, and she nodded. "There's a girl, we'll do that soon. Sit down, let's rinse you off."

L crouched once again, and Quillsh began to pour the water over her back and arms again. Softly, she spoke.

"I don't like guns."

-///-

"So you actually followed through this time, eh, Wammy?" Officer Brady said, observing the strange little waif of a child that stood behind Quillsh, dressed in a pair of jeans that seemed much too big for it.

"She wasn't averse to it, if that's what you mean," Quillsh replied, merrily digging his hands into his coat pockets. "Thank _you_ for allowing it, really."

"Eh, it was nothing," said the officer, and he bent down to address the child. "So, you interested in becoming a police officer?"

"No," the child replied. "I like solving puzzles."

"She's a bit of a difficult one," said Quillsh said in a cheerful manner, after Brady grimaced slightly in confusion and disapproval.

"Aren't all of yours that way?" Brady said, laughing a little, and Quillsh joined him.

"Certainly, certainly," he said. "Now, may we come in?"

"Ah, right," he said. "Kid, you're gonna have to be careful; this is a crime scene, and you can't touch _anything_. Y'got that?" The child gave no reply, staring at him with that strange, bug-eyed glare. "What's her name, anyways?"

"L, just the letter," Quillsh replied.

"Just the letter? L?" Quillsh nodded. "What kinda weird, crunchy hippie names their kid a letter?" Brady said, laughing a little as he opened the door.

"She named herself, actually," said Quillsh, and Brady's face contorted in confusion as they entered. "So, what's the case you've given us?"

"Generic suicide," he replied. "Tamest I could find, really. Didn't wanna scar the kid too much."

The crumpled body of a woman lay in a chair in the corner, blood spattered on the wall behind her; a sheet had been placed over her lifeless form.

"Poor dear, what's her story?" Quillsh asked.

"Drug addict; too poor to buy more for her fix and miserable enough to want to end it, most likely," he replied, his voice then dropping. "Honestly, Wammy, why'd you wanna bring a kid here?"

"She showed an interest," he replied. "See? I think she's enjoying herself."

L had wandered off and was observing each piece of labeled evidence, peering at the forensic photographer that was making his rounds around the apartment. Her eyes suddenly widened, as if she had noticed something, and she had disappeared into the kitchenette. It wasn't that large of an issue until she had opened the refrigerator.

"Hey! You can't touch anything!" said Brady, rushing over to where she was and grabbing her hand; she was reaching for an apple. "This is a _crime scene_, remember?"

L stared at him, her eyes devoid of emotion, and her head tilted slightly to one side; hair fell into her eyes. "Was this a suicide?" she asked.

"Yes, it is," Brady replied; Quillsh watched from behind the counter, quietly, his hands still in his pockets.

"Drug addiction," said L.

"Excuse me?" Brady echoed, letting go of her arm.

"You say she was a drug addict, depressed too?" she said.

"Ah... yes, that's her background," said Brady.

"She didn't kill herself," said L. "This was a murder."

"A murder?" said Brady, scoffing a little. "Well, little lady, what makes you say that?"

"If she was a drug addict, she would not have fresh fruit in her refrigerator," L stated. "That is too expensive. It is easier to go to a fast food restaurant. The refrigerator should be empty, but it is not."

Brady looked at her in mild astonishment, before furrowing his brow, then looking into the fridge himself. It wasn't stocked-full, but modestly filled, with a carton of milk, a box of strawberries, some yogurt, a few packages of vegetables, and a bag of apples. Definitely not food for a crack addict.

"I'll be damned," he said softly.

"I thought you said we weren't allowed to touch anything," L said, a spark of rebellion in her voice. "Also, do not call me lady. I dislike that word."

"Whatever you want, kid," said Brady. "Say... what else d'you think you can figure out from this?"

"I would say that perhaps she was killed by a dealer," L said, in all seriousness; both Quillsh and Brady were a bit astonished that she even knew what dealers were. "There is a schedule on the side of the refrigerator that has a program she was enrolled in. She was trying to quit, I believe. Perhaps her wallet got emptied. Search for it."

Though the final command in her voice was a little bit undesired, Brady nodded and approached Quillsh on his way out. "She's sharp, Quillsh," he said. "I mean, really. All on a first observation? Christ."

"I think we'll be leaving now," Quillsh said. "L? Come with me."

"Good-bye, Officer Brady," L said, quickly returning to Quillsh's side as he began to leave.

"Do give us a call with the final report," Quillsh said. "Take care, now!"

The man then left, the child behind him, and Brady stood there in a slight daze before going to find the rest of the team in the room.

-///-

A few days later, a phone call arrived for Quillsh from Brady, asking if he'd like to join him for a drink that evening. After making sure that Roger had things under control, and L was kept occupied, Quillsh left the building and walked by himself for a while, before stopping in a pub and finding Brady sitting at a table.

"Evening," Quillsh said genially. "Have you ordered any drinks?"

"None yet," Brady replied, his eyes downcast and thoughtful. They sat in silence for a while, before the policeman spoke. "Christ, Wammy,  
that kid of yours..."

"L, you mean?" said Quillsh, and Brady nodded.

"We had the scene checked a little more thoroughly, and... well, her wallet was missing from the apartment, but we found it on her old drug dealer only the day after. Wasn't too pleased that he had lost a customer, or something like that..." he said.

"No need to keep up the facade, Charles," said Quillsh. "She's not around any more, after all. Your acting was spot-on, though."

"Ah, yeah, sorry," he replied, smiling a little. "Thanks. Hard to tell to an untrained eye though, eh?"

"Good one to choose, thank you so much for looking for an appropriate one," said Quillsh. "It would have taken an adult quite a while to see evidence of it not being a suicide."

"Yeah, but to look in the fridge, of all places, and make that assumption?" said Brady. "Christ. There's something with that girl. Honestly, Wammy, did you see...?"

"I saw. She's a special one, all right," Quillsh said. "I really think she may be the one."

"The one?" said Brady, confusedly, before realizing something. "Wait... you're not still thinking about-"

"Ever since Maryworth left us, I've been looking, Charles," said Quillsh quietly. "I'm still not sure about L, but I have a feeling... I have a feeling."

Brady was quiet for a good while, before sighing. "It really would be something if you actually did that, Wammy," he said. "Really something."

Quillsh smiled slightly beneath his mustache. "Let's have us something to drink, hm?" he suggested; Brady nodded in agreement, and they ordered a pint of beer each.

"You know... I really wonder how in the hell she knew what a drug dealer was, much less know a thing about drugs," said Brady. "You got any background on her? Think her parents used?"

"Perhaps; she's about as researchable as a John Doe, Brady," Quillsh said. "It's troubling, and I don't know when, but I can only hope she'll open up to me someday. That's really all we have."

"Yeah, eventually," said Brady, and their drinks arrived. He grabbed his glass and raised it. "Here's... to time, eh?"

"To time," Quillsh agreed, and they clinked their glasses together.

-///-

Three years later, Officer Charles Brady was killed in a corner store after being shot in a robbery while buying a package of candy. His killer, a later-convicted sex offender, died in 2004 of a heart attack.


	3. Artemis at Work

Quillsh Wammy was not bothered by the sounds of dying men.

He had had experience enough with them, when he was a much younger man.

He remembered their pathetic forms in the soiled white hospitals of a shattered Britain, bandaged in red and brown with missing limbs and eyes and faces. They'd scream and moan and call for God and Mummy and their lovers, but only the few nurses and doctors would be able to tend to them and bring them relief.

Quillsh learned how to drown out the noise within five nights. It allowed him to sleep away the pain of the wound in his leg easier.

But he never seemed to be able to keep away the noise of the children's wing.

There was simply nothing more painful to his ears than the sound of a child in pain.

A scream of that very sort rang through the halls of the Winchester House, and his legs moved, as if by compulsion, to see what in the world was the matter.

It always seemed to be that, after his stay in that hospital, he could never bear to hear the sound without finding a way to ease the child of its suffering.

It was one of the reasons Maryworth loved him.

The screaming came from one of the many studies of the orphanage, a modestly-decorated one with several tall windows and bookcases on its walls. An aide stood in the middle of a cluster of children, struggling to keep two small persons apart.

One of them, the one that seemed to be crying, was the one that needed to be suppressed the most, flailing violently and making reckless kicks into the air. He clutched his right arm with his hand and was screaming, at the top of his lungs, "You stupid girl! You're no better'n an animal! You're worse'n a rat, you bite worse'n a rat! I hate you, you stupid girl!"

The other child, standing sullenly opposite the screaming boy, was L.

Quillsh sighed. "Vanessa! What's going on here?" he asked, and the spectator children parted to let the man, whom they all loved dearly, through. Even the flailing boy stopped his screaming, but continued to grunt and kick at the air. L did nothing.

"This one bit Anthony," Vanessa said, keeping one hand on the motionless L while restraining the boy with her other. "I have no idea why, but she just... bit him, right there on the arm. I'm just shocked, it's usually the other way around."

Again, Quillsh sighed, and bent down to eye level with the boy. "Anthony, calm down. Show me your arm, please."

Anthony, an unruly boy of 9 with a bad case of hyperactivity that often resulted in violence, refused to unclasp his hand from his arm. "Don't wanna. Stupid girl. _Stupid_ girl."

"Anthony," Quillsh said again, but the boy looked away with a pout. "Show me your arm or I'll take your hand off for you myself. And we don't want that, do we? There's a good lad."

"Awright, fine," said Anthony, and released the hand. A ring of red teeth marks stood out from his slightly freckled skin. "Stupid girl," he said again.

Quillsh glanced at L disapprovingly. She continued to stare at some point that was between the floor and Quillsh's eyes, her hair in her face. "This was the one responsible?" he said, taking care to avoid the gender-specific pronouns that L hated.

"Yes, this one," Vanessa affirmed, shaking the shoulder beneath her hand. L noticeably tensed up at the sudden movement.

"I'll have a word with you, then," said Quillsh, standing up and approaching L. She still refused to look at him. "L, take my hand."

"There is no need," she said, and began down the hall by herself, to the staircase that led to Quillsh's office.

"Have an antibiotic put on that bite," he instructed, and Vanessa nodded.

"You think you're gonna turn into some sorta mutant from that bite of yours?" a child asked, as they clustered around Anthony, once Quillsh had turned to leave. "With those bugged-out eyes an' all?"

"I bet your hair's gonna turn black," another child said.

"Don' worry, she's just a stupid girl," Anthony said proudly, as one who had been mauled by a bear and survived might say, while being interviewed on television. "I got 'er beat. I just let 'er bite me, is all."

"A girl? How'n the world is that a _girl_?" someone said, incredulously.

Quillsh was out of earshot before Anthony could reply, while Vanessa applied an antibacterial cream to the bite mark and bandaged it up.

L was waiting, patiently, in his office once he had gotten up the stairs. She still refused to look at him.

"L, would you please tell me the meaning of this?" he asked. "Why did you bite Anthony?"

"He called me a girl," she replied simply.

"You _are_ a girl, L," said Quillsh, clasping his hands behind his back as he walked. "That's no reason to bite someone for."

"Yes, it is a good reason," L replied. "He called me a _stupid_ girl. I am neither a girl, nor am I stupid."

"While you are decidedly not stupid, L," said Quillsh, looking at the child, "you cannot deny your gender."

"Yes, I can," L said.

"L..."

"He had no right to say either of those things," L interrupted, finally looking at him with cold eyes. "It was an insult."

"You cannot solve matters like that with violence, L," Quillsh said, and sat at his desk. "Words work far better."

"Men resolve issues with violence," L said, her back turned to him. Her shock of black hair barely rose over the surface of his desk. "All of them do, even little ones."

"Do you want to be a man, L?" Quillsh asked, half-joking. "You seem to be accustomed to using this violence already."

"No," L said. "I detest violence."

Holding back a chuckle, Quillsh said, "Then if you want to be neither a man nor a woman, what will you be?"

"Me, of course," L said.

"You, my dear, are a confusing individual," he said, smiling in spite of himself.

"Do not call me _dear_," L replied, her voice monotone, but catty. He frowned.

"L, mind your temper," he said, and resolved not to let himself be distracted again. "We mustn't change the subject. You had no right to bite Anthony."

"Yes I did, I told you earlier," L said, finally looking at him. Her small face carried a hint of anger. "He insulted me, so I had to return the favor in a way he would likely understand."

"Understand?" said Quillsh. "That is to say... you think Anthony would have understood that you felt insulted better by you biting him, rather than you saying the fact?"

"Men understand violence better than words," L said simply, looking at the door frame again.

"Then why do you use words, and not violence with me?" Quillsh asked. "We do disagree on some things, you know."

"That I know. That is because you are a respectable man," L said. "You do not use violence. That boy does. I watch him in the library; he tosses books around and hurts other children. He understands violence more than words."

"But do you think words could have been worth a try?" said Quillsh.

"Only in a small percentage," said L. Her bare toes curled into the thick rug. "I feel my biting him was quite effective."

"Indeed it was, L, but it must never happen again," Quillsh said, getting out of his chair, and bending down in front of her. "There will be no punishment this time, but if you are insulted once more, you must handle it in a distinguished manner. Do you understand?"

"Of course I do," L replied. "May I leave?"

"Yes, L, you may," said Quillsh, and L daintily made her way across the rug and to the door, where she turned around and peered at her caretaker.

"I still feel my actions are justifiable," she said, and went on her way.

Quillsh just sighed, for the third time that afternoon, and shook his head.

-///-

It was less than an hour before Anthony was crying again.

This time, L had bitten him on the hand, and he was bleeding.

"I thought I told you to handle things responsibly, L!" he said, after dragging her by the arm to a quieter room, as his office was much too far off. "What is _this_ about?!"

"I attempted as best I could," L said, glowering as she stared at a bit of carpet to her right. "He refused to listen."

"You cannot do this, L!" said Quillsh, and held her by the shoulders; she winced at the contact. "People are supposed to be civil, as best they can. And resorting to biting is _not_ being civil."

"It certainly seems to be that way with the boys," L said flatly.

"Then I'll have to have a lesson with them about this, later," said Quillsh, and his grip tightened, just barely. L noticed, and winced again, glaring for a brief second at him. "You are not to bite people, L, and that is a _rule_." She did not reply. "L... it's very nearly Christmas, for goodness' sakes. You ought to behave yourself."

"I don't see how the birth of Jesus Christ correlates to my behavior," said L.

"Father Christmas doesn't visit naughty children," Quillsh replied, after failing to come up with a response for a good few seconds. "Surely you'd prefer a nice gift to a stocking full of coal, wouldn't you?"

L's eyes drifted out the window, and Quillsh guessed, rightly, that she was thinking. It was only a few days until Christmas, after all. The Wammy House, being just slightly Christian enough to have chapel on the grounds, was festooned with tinsel and colored lights, and climaxed in a magnificent tree with baubles all over it and many presents below it in one of the larger studies.

Tacked all around a nearby fireplace were stockings, one for each child at the Winchester House. L had one, herself, but Roger had to make it―one of the aides in charge of embroidering names on new stockings had, mistakenly but beautifully, put a black "Elle"on the red stocking, and Quillsh would have none of that. Roger replaced it with a proper stocking, embroidered by a sole capital L, but the child it belonged to had glared at it in disdain upon seeing it, though none could guess why. A similar expression crossed her face after her eyes returned from the window, and she said, "You mean Santa Claus, don't you? He doesn't exist."

Quillsh was not one for coddling. "Well, you're correct, L. He doesn't _rightly _exist," he said. "But, all the same, you won't be getting any gifts if your behavior continues on like this."

"Adults shouldn't lie," L said.

"And where, exactly, did I lie?" he asked. She had a habit of replying to a sentence with the last possible piece of information one could garner from it. It caught people unawares half the time, and was sometimes annoying.

"Santa Claus doesn't exist, yet you speak like he does," said L. "Adults shouldn't spread lies like that to children."

"There's no harm in the legend of Father Christmas, L," he said. "For all you know, he really does exist. Then it wouldn't rightly be lying, would it?"

For a mere moment, L seemed to be a normal child, the possibility of Santa existing flashing through her mind in a nanosecond. "I suppose... although chances are he does not, and you're just trying to teach me a lesson."

Herself again, Quillsh let go of her shoulders and she placed her thumb on her lip thoughtfully, but glared still. "Let's have you apologize to Anthony. _Properly_, this time," said Quillsh. "Then I'll have a good talking-to with him, and we'll be all right again, won't we?"

"I suppose," L said. "I'd prefer if you didn't drag me by the arm this time, however."

Quillsh chuckled. "Of course," he said, and they left the study to go find Anthony.

It didn't take long, and the boy sullenly glared at L, clutching his bandaged hand as if it were made of gold, as an aide stood gently behind him for reassurance. "I believe L has something to say to you, Anthony," said Quillsh, and ushered the girl forward. "L...?"

"I am very sorry for biting you on the hand, rather than keeping my temper and resolving our argument with words," L said, as if the lines were scripted, which was not the case. "Although I highly disagree with your opinions, and believe your intelligence is questionable, and that words would be useless to try and persuade you otherwise, it is unfortunate that I bit you, and I regret it."

Quillsh, the aide, and the boy stood in silence for a while, somewhat in shock. Anthony seemed to be more confused than shocked, however, trying to piece together what the ugly girl (barely even a girl, in his opinion), two years his junior, had said. "You calling me stupid?" he said, finally piecing together something.

"If by stupid, you mean ignorant and unintelligent, then yes, you are," L said evenly. "My apologies."

"Y'little brat!" Anthony said, attempting to launch himself at L, but the aide―a tall woman with a soft face that was the lone daughter amidst six brothers―held him back easily. L did nothing, staying where she stood without even blinking. "Y'brat! I oughtta kick you for that! Y'bratty little girl! You're the one that's stupid! Stupid girl!"

"Do not call me a girl," L said, though her reply could barely be heard over Anthony's protesting.

"You don't even look like a girl, stupid girl!" Anthony continued. "Why don't you act like a girl, huh? Is that what got you so mad? That the boys won't letcha play?" He stopped struggling and crossed his arms, a smirk rivaling one Peter Pan might have given crossing his mouth. "You don't wanna be a girly-girl! Put on a dress, girly-girl! I'd like to see that! Gir-rly-gi―"

L had scratched him across the face before he could even finish. It drew blood.

Anthony wailed, clutching his face as the blood beaded up into the cut. "Lookit what she did! Lookit! She's gone mental! I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die!" he screamed, and the aide attempted to calm him down by holding him firmly by the arms.

Quillsh dragged L back, further away from Anthony, but she didn't struggle. Instead, she said, "Do not _ever_ call me a girl," her voice a hoarse, yet fierce whisper. "I am _me_. I am not one of those _girly-girls_. I will never be one. I'm not weak. I'm _me_. _I'm me._"

Unless he was quite mistaken, Quillsh could have sworn that it was the closet to tears he had ever seen L be, since he had encountered her. Though her face was stern and unemotional, her eyes were wide and her face was growing slightly red. He took a deep breath, as Anthony continued to scream, the aide whispering soothing things in his ear.

"Joan," he said, and the aide looked up. "Take Anthony to have those scratches treated, and go tell Roger that I'll be going on holiday with L tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Where?" Joan asked, and even Anthony quieted down a little, his screams reduced to small sobs.

"Somewhere," he replied. "And I don't expect us to be home in time for Christmas."

"Of course," said Joan, and pried away Anthony's left hand from his right, which was clamped to his face. "Just be sure to tell Mister Cohen your plans."

"Yes, indeed," Quillsh said, as Joan and Anthony left, the boy sniffling.

Anthony had final thing to say, before he disappeared down the hall: "Bloody girls. So annoying."

L was anything but pleased.

-///-

Quillsh's holiday, L and Roger later found out, was to be in New York City.

A friend of his from his war days owned a rather respectable hotel there, and was always more than willing to give Quillsh accommodations, should the need arise.

L didn't seem to notice the parquet or the paneled walls or the sheer splendor of the place, although she had rather fascinatedly watched how the light gleamed off the brass buttons on the bellboys' uniforms, while Quillsh negotiated with the concierge over his room.

"Right this way, Mister Wammy," a bellboy had said, in charmingly accented English, and L begrudgingly followed as they were escorted to a lavish suite on one of the upper floors of the hotel, with a scrumptious cream and gold color scheme.

"My, I haven't been given this room in ages," said Quillsh, sitting on the master bed and bouncing around a bit. "I'm surprised it's open, on Christmas of all times!"

"Only the best for you, Mister Wammy," said the bellboy, as he finished unloading the final suitcase from the trolley. "Call if you need anything." He left.

L had somehow found her way atop one of the gilt and upholstery chairs that sat in the living room, and crouched in an a way reminiscent of Chinese statues of monkeys, her knobbly fingers perched on her knees. Though amusing, her face was anything but mischievous or playful. She was the first thing Quillsh saw upon re-entering the living room, as if she were a sentinel of the room, disapproving of any visitors.

He chuckled a little, in spite of himself. "Making yourself at home already, are we?" he said. She gave no reply, but didn't take her eyes off him. "We'll be going out to dinner tonight, you know. You may order _anything_ you wish, while we're there. Dessert even. That's exciting, isn't it?"

If L was excited, she certainly didn't show it. Quillsh continued anyways. "Christmas Eve is tomorrow, you know. Would you perhaps like to attend the ball the hotel is hosting for it?"

"I don't dance," L said.

"You don't even have to dance," Quillsh said, and laughed a little again as he looked into the refrigerator. It was pre-stocked with fine foods. "You may simply hobnob, if you'd like. There'd be a great many fascinating people to meet."

"No, thank you," said L, and stared at the television, which was turned off.

"Then you'd like to be left here, by yourself, in the suite?" said Quillsh. A flash of uncertainty in her eyes, and he closed the fridge; it was something he rarely saw.

"I wouldn't mind it, myself," she said, but her voice was soft and just the slightest bit of insecurity had crawled into it, like a worm. "No doubt I can entertain myself in your absence. I don't like being around lots of people."

"Do you not like being alone, though?" said Quillsh, feeling almost as if he were digging through a layer of sand, and feeling the hard wood of a box beneath his fingers. There was something unusual here, barely visible. "You look a little uneasy, L."

"I'm not uneasy," she replied, and finally looked at him again. She was glaring in her usual way again. "And yes, I do enjoy being alone."

"Right, then," said Quillsh. "I'll attend the ball alone, and leave you to your own devices, tomorrow night. Seeing that neither of us _mind_, of course."

"Of course," L said, and returned to staring at the blank television, a slightly uncomfortable air settling about her. She stayed on the couch until Quillsh, who busied himself with a novel, declared it was time for dinner. L got off the couch to join him almost instantly.

Needless to say, Quillsh found himself rather amused after L ordered a rather large box of chocolates that cost him close to 50 dollars as her dinner. The price itself was rather secondary to watching her daintily pop chocolate after chocolate in her mouth, tasting each separate flavor and commenting along the way.

She was quite the connoisseur, it seemed.

-///-

Christmas Eve arrived, and the hotel was buzzing with activity as guests from all around the world arrived for the ball. Quillsh ordered tea and porridge in the morning for breakfast, and gave L her nutrient shake as he added two lumps of sugar and just a dash of cream to his cup. It was how he always took it.

"I'd like a sip, if you please," L said unexpectedly, the straw from her can still perched in her mouth.

"What, of my tea?" Quillsh, still in his dressing gown, said. L nodded. "Well all right, but it's not that sweet."

L set the shake can down on the table and daintily handled the white and gold china teacup, balancing it merely on her fingertips before clutching the handle with her thumb and forefinger. She took a sip. And another.

The cup was very quickly drained, and Quillsh laughed loudly. "What's so funny?" L asked.

"I just never expected that you'd like Earl Gray," he said. "Shall I get your own cup?"

"Yes, I'd like that," said L, and set down Quillsh's cup. "It's not disagreeable."

"Then that's good," said Quillsh, chuckling. "Perhaps if I could get you to nibble on watercress sandwiches, you could join me in the afternoons for tea."

"We'll see," L said, as Quillsh poured her another cup.

"Add sugar, if you'd like," he said, refilling his own. By the time he had added his dash of cream, L had dropped her fifth sugar cube into the hot liquid, with a small plopping sound. "Don't you think that's quite enough?" he asked.

"I like sweet things," she replied, and found herself a spoon to stir it with. Once that was finished, she took a sip and declared, "Much better than yours," before sauntering to the television and turning it on. Sesame Street played, and L's eyes almost seemed to grow a little wider.

Quillsh leaned back in his chair as L grasped the cup with the tips of her fingers, and held it to her lips but didn't sip. Steam rose into the air as the Cookie Monster devoured a glass of strawberry soda, and a purple Muppet next to him explained that while the glass was now empty, the Monster was definitely full.

In the still Wednesday morning, Quillsh could almost swear that L had laughed a tiny, tiny laugh, before taking a sip of the tea.

But he decided to say nothing of it.

-///-

"Wammy! Merry Christmas, it's been ages! What a coincidence, seeing you here! What've you been _up_ to?"

Sammel Watershead, a raucous man in the publishing business that was American in every sense of the word, approached the tuxedoed Quillsh, a glass of champagne in his hand. He wore a digital watch and a white suit, and looked charmingly tacky.

"Happy Christmas, Sammel," said Quillsh, smiling. "Oh, various things."

"Still inventing?" asked Sammel.

"Marginally," Quillsh replied cheerfully. "I've been preoccupied with orphanage work, lately."

"Oh yeah... how's that going?" said Sammel, and swept a stray piece of red-gold hair back into its gelled place. "Heard about you on the news, what... maybe four months ago?"

"Did, you now?" said Quillsh. "That's certainly something, I try _so_ hard to lay low."

"Ah, stop it, you," said Sammel, and laughed as he clapped Quillsh on the shoulder. The Englishman laughed as well. "Not everyone goes out and... makes orphanages, or does whatever you do. You're a regular Paul McCartney, Wammy."

"The only difference between him and I is that he is from Liverpool, and I am not a vegetarian," said Quillsh, and the two of them burst into laughter again.

"I missed ya, Wammy," said Sammel. "Why dontcha visit the States more? I used to see you all the time only a few years back."

"Oh, I was in Montana just two months ago," Quillsh replied. "I'm afraid that's nowhere near New York, but still..."

"Montana, huh?" said Sammel. "What were ya doing over there? Skiing, hiking?"

"Finding a child, though it was almost like rescuing, in a way," said Quillsh. "I don't suppose she'd be likely to want to meet you, however. She's a bit difficult."

"Oh, orphanage work, huh?" Sammel said, and Quillsh nodded. "Going outta your way to get all the trouble kids, still?"

"Absolutely," Quillsh said, and smiled.

"Ah, good for you," said Sammel, though he probably wasn't as sincere as he could be.

"Thank you," said Quillsh. "And what have you been doing lately?"

"Just the usual; hunting for decent journalists, decent stories. You wouldn't believe the amount of crap writers there are here!" he said, and waved his champagne glass around a little, for effect. "It's abso-freakin-unbeliev―"

A sudden tug on the tail of Quillsh's jacket, and a small body shoving its way between them interrupted the conversation, and Quillsh looked down to see none other than L, looking at him reproachfully.

"Who in the world is _that_?" Sammel said, only vaguely put-off by this weird-looking child before him.

"This is L, I was telling you about her earlier," Quillsh replied. "L, what is it?"

"I feel uncomfortable," she said, and she looked at the ground. Her eyes, which Quillsh barely caught a glimpse of, were much softer and more vulnerable than her cold words.

"What's going on?" Sammel said. "You didn't tell me about any Elle."

"L, what's the matter? How did you get down here?" he said, before realizing that the girl was still clothed in her usual loose jeans and shirt. He laughed a little. "In a formal ball, no less."

"I tried not to be seen, and I wasn't," L explained, but her voice was muffled by the rest of the ballgoers and her downturned head. "Please return to the room. Please."

"L, it's only 7 'o clock," said Quillsh, crouching down and holding her shoulder comfortingly. "I'm having a marvelous time, and I'd much like to be able to visit with more of my friends. I haven't seen a good many of them in a while, like Mister Watershead right here." He gestured to the man in the white tuxedo, who finally seemed to catch on that this was indeed the child that Wammy had mentioned early. Freaky-looking thing.

"I feel uncomfortable," L said, knitting her fingers together. "Come back to the room."

"I thought you didn't mind being alone, L," said Quillsh. The feeling of digging through sand seemed to be returning.

"I feel uncomfortable," said L again. "Come back to the room."

"L, I simply can't," said Quillsh. "If you'd like to stay with me down here, I'd be more than willing to watch you. But, you must dress up, or you'll get in trouble."

"I absolutely will not wearthat _thing_ you put on my bed," L said, looking up; a little of the vulnerable softness was gone in her eyes.

"L, you do not have a choice," said Quillsh, smiling. "Let's make a deal. I'll go back to the room with you, but I'll give you five minutes to get dressed and brush your hair, and then I shall leave, with or without you. You understand?"

"I never was one for ultimatums," L said, and shrugged. "All right."

"Good child," said Quillsh, and stood; her fingers clung to his coat-tail. "I'm sorry, Sammel, I'll be back shortly."

"Naw, don't bother," the man replied, and waved. "It was nice seein' you and... Elle tonight. Hell of a vocabulary you got there, kid. Think of going into journalism when you grow up?"

"No, thank you," L replied, and followed Quillsh out of the sea of people.

-///-

L woke up the next morning atop her bedcovers, dressed in the cream-white confection of a dress Quillsh had packed for her and laid upon her bed the night before, in a hopeful gesture. The layers of crimped satin billowed out from around her legs, and she scowled.

She hated dresses.

At least she was allowed to go barefoot to that dance last night. She hated shoes more than dresses.

Sliding her legs over the bed, she began getting at the small pearl buttons at the back of the bodice when she noticed a small, gift-wrapped package sitting on the vanity chair, which had been turned to face her bed. Not minding the fact that she was still, very embarrassingly, in a dress, she picked up the thing and eyed it as she turned it over in her fingers.

It seemed to be two small sets of rectangular prisms, of moderate density. Books, she guessed. Written on the white and gold wrapping in marker was, "Happy Christmas."

Utterly confused, but guessing that these were Christmas gifts, L put the package back on the chair and got out of the dress. Comfortably in a pair of jeans and a shirt, she took the package and sat, cross-legged, on the bed. The dress remained a formless blob of satin and beads on the floor.

With the utmost of care, L took off the tape and unfolded the wrapping, careful not to rip a single thing. It was an almost sacred moment, and she preferred not to make any mistakes.

After all, it was the first time that anyone had given her a real gift.

Inside were two books. The smaller of the two, a hardcover, read "The Secret of the Old Clock," and it was by somebody named Carolyn Keene. A girl with strawberry-blond hair, clutching what appeared to be the eponymous Old Clock, sneaked across the cover. The second was a larger paperback, with nothing but the words "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," written on it. L stared at the books for at least five minutes, flipping through the pages but not reading them , before calmly clutching them to her chest and leaving her room.

Quillsh was waiting there at the table, again in his dressing-gown, a tray of tea next to him. He was sipping from one cup, but another sat in wait on the tray, still lightly steaming.

"Good morning," he said, smiling warmly. "Your tea's up there. Five sugars, as you like it."

"What is the meaning of this?" she replied, thrusting the books in his direction.

"They're your Christmas presents," he replied, and reached for the copy of The New York Times that was resting on the tray. "It looks like Father Christmas visited last night. Perhaps he was impressed that you were being agreeable last night."

"I know it's just you," L said, clutching the books again. "Santa Claus doesn't exist."

"Have some tea," Quillsh replied, and peered over his glasses like a patronly grandfather as he opened up the newspaper and began to read about some fatal robbery in Japan.

"...thank you," L said softly, and shifted the books to one arm as she took her tea and sipped at it. Quillsh couldn't quite decide what exactly she was thanking him _for, _but it certainly seemed to apply to many things―the gifts, the tea, his presence for her the night before.

"You're very welcome, L," said Quillsh, and grinned behind his newspaper. "You know, you looked very pretty at that ball last night. You ought to brush your hair more often, and that dress was―"

"I am never again wearing a dress, so do not try to convince me otherwise," L said curtly, and took her tea to the couch, where she began to read over the adventures of Nancy Drew.

"As you wish," said Quillsh, and returned to his newspaper.

It began to snow.

Sometime in the middle of the book, L thought that it wouldn't be half-bad to be a detective when she was older.

However, the notion was entertained for merely a moment, as she quickly returned to the plot and finished it in that one sitting.

-///-

"Oh, what's this? What are you up to, now?"

The mother smiled as her son, not even a year old and already walking and talking extensively, clung to her leg in the kitchen; the boy looked up with an expectant smile.

"Aren't you excited for Daddy to come home?" she asked . "Yes, Daddy's off doing important things, isn't he? But he'll be home soon, yes he will!"

"Daddy go... Daddy come back!" the boy said, his small, developing mind reaching for a connection that had been made months before, after countless encounters of people coming and going, and games of peekaboo.

"Yes, Daddy come back!" said his mother, scooping him up into a hug. "Oh, aren't you such a smart little thing."

"Hungry," the boy declared, suddenly frowning; his mother laughed.

"You'll have to be patient, sweetie," she said, and put him down, reaching for his pacifier on the counter. "Here you are, we'll have dinner soon."

Her son placed the pacifier in his mouth and satisfiedly sucked on it, then teetered to the living room to cuddle with his new bear, a Christmas present. His mother turned on the television, and the evening news began to air.

"...two have been reported dead, with five more injured, three in critical condition, as a result of yesterday's robbery," the anchor announced, finishing up the story of a rather disastrous bank heist on Christmas Eve. "The suspects escaped by car and remain at large; monetary losses are being reported upwards of three million yen."

"Oh, goodness," the mother exclaimed, setting up her boy's high chair. "Those are very bad men, dear, and I'm sure the police will get them. They always do," she added for good measure, as the weather report began to air. She wanted to have a good lesson come out of the tragedy, after all.

Her son stared, fixated, at the set, the monitor reflecting an eerie glow in his dark little eyes. Taking out his pacifier, he looked over his shoulder and said, "Bad people?"

"Yes, dear, very bad people," his mother replied. "Those robbers are very bad people."

"Bad people..." he said again, before putting his pacifier back in as a commercial played.

"Guess who's home!" said a voice, as her husband came in through the door.

"You're home early!" she said, flinging her arms around him and giving him a kiss. "I didn't expect you back until midnight, at least!"

"The chief let me out," said the father, smiling. "And, guess who got a promotion?"

"Oh my _God_, you can't be _serious!_" his wife said, and kissed him again. "I knew it! You were deserving of one for a while, anyways, you do so much for the force..." Her husband laughed as their son noticed the commotion going on in the foyer. "Well, this is wonderful news! Oh, let me go get your plate! I was just about to start dinner!"

"Fantastic!" said her husband, and began to take off his coat.

"Daddy!" the boy cried, and attempted to cling to his father's legs, but was scooped up instead.

"How's my little boy?" he said. "My, you're getting bigger!"

"Daddy come back!" the boy replied.

"Why, so I did!" the father said

"Dear, put him in his high chair," said his mother, and her husband did so. The mother proceeded to slice a banana into pieces for the baby, as the father ambled into the kitchen and remarked on how nice the food smelled.

It was a joyous Christmas in the Yagami household.

And the boy that would one day be a god stared at the television as dinner progressed, utterly fascinated by the stories presented to him by the thing.

Bad people, he had learned from it, were punished.

They always were.


	4. Prometheus Immobile

"What are you reading?"

A voice somewhere in the library reached L's ears, and she glanced around from her perch atop a chair to see where it was coming from. She had heard nothing but footsteps and squeaking wheels since she had arrived―an aide was reshelving books, her presence accounting for the footsteps, and the ladder she was using for the squeaking.

She couldn't see anyone who might have spoken to her―the voice sounded male, and young, and most of the other children were out throwing snow at each other that afternoon―so she returned to her book.

"Hello? What are you reading over there?"

The voice again, and L looked up further in case she had missed something―which was unlikely, she told herself―and again found nothing. But she found herself slightly unnerved, and pretended to return to the book. It would probably provoke a response from whoever was speaking to her, anyways.

"I know you can hear me," said the voice, as expected, "even if you are trying to ignore me. Just tell me what you're reading."

"Tell me where you are, and I shall tell you what I'm reading," L said, not looking up. The voice laughed.

"Well, that's not very fair, is it?" he said. "You should look harder. It can't be that hard."

L's eyes skimmed over the top of her book, scanning the room again, but she found nothing. "If this is some sort of trick, it's not a very good one," she said, her eyes returning to the text. "I dislike hiding games."

"Unless you're the one that's hiding, right?" said the voice, and L looked up again. "You like to hide places."

"I do not," L replied, which was a bit of a lie; she did like to vex Roger and Quillsh by climbing atop cupboards and into closets, but it hadn't been as fun lately.

"Do too," the voice said cheekily. "You caused a lot of trouble when you first showed up and hid all over the place."

"And do I any longer?" L asked.

"Who am I to say?" the voice replied. "You've been very quiet lately, Little Miss L."

"Do not call me Miss, or Little," L said tartly, and returned to the book. "How do you know me?"

"Oh, I know lots of things," said the voice. "Lots more than you, I bet, Miss L."

"Stop that," L said, and didn't look up, but her grip tightened on the book in annoyance.

"Stop what, Miss L?"

"Stop calling me Miss! I dislike it!" she hissed. The voice laughed, and she wished she could give its owner a good clout in the face.

"I'll stop calling you Miss if you tell me what you're reading."

"And I'll tell you what I'm reading when you stop hiding, you annoying thing," L said, getting much angrier than usual. The book trembled a little in her grip. What a stupid boy. "Why aren't you outside with the rest of those idiots?"

There was a slight murmur, and a very light chuckle, and footsteps. L closed the book on her finger, expecting to see some sort of boy appearing, but it did not happen.

Then a squeak of wheels, and the aide that was shelving books appeared, pushing a wheelchair with a child in it. It was a boy, maybe around 11 or 12, by L's calculations, with dark hair and eyes and a placid smile.

"Afraid I can't go outside, really," he said. "Can't do much of anything, myself."

"Oh," L said curtly, feeling just the slightest bit embarrassed, and returned to the book.

"Thank you for bringing me over," the boy said, craning his neck to glance at the aide, who nodded and left. "Now that I'm here, tell me what you're reading?"

"_The Catcher in the Rye,_" L replied, but did not look up to make eye contact with the boy in the chair.

"Oh, I see," said the boy. "Any good?"

"No," L replied. The boy laughed.

"Really? I've heard it's a classic, or something like that. It's bad?" he said.

"The main character is a disgusting person," L said, and glanced up for the merest of seconds over the book. The boy was still smiling a little. She looked back at the book again. "He has absolutely no regard for anyone but himself. It's a trait I dislike very much."

"Really," said the boy. "Anything else?" L didn't do anything, so he continued. "Huh, can't be all that bad, then. I mean, if you don't like one character in the book, it doesn't mean the book itself is bad."

"The main character is the narrator," L said dryly. "His point of view isn't a very nice one."

"Ah," said the boy. "So is it really that bad?"

"To put it lightly, it's awful," L said, feeling particularly scathing. Her vocabulary was getting a nice workout, she felt.

"Then why are you halfway through it?" said the boy, and L looked up. Her cheeks flushed a slight shade deeper than normal in embarrassment. "If it's such a bad book, why are you still reading?"

The boy looked like he was about to laugh, and L glowered, her cheeks going pale again. "I want to see if the author will redeem himself by the ending," she said. "Sometimes the ending is the best part of the book."

"Read it backwards, then," said the boy, finally laughing. L noticed that only his head seemed to move when he laughed, his shoulders oddly stationary.

"Why would I do that?" L said. "That wouldn't make any sense."

"But you said endings were the best part," said the boy.

"Only on rare occasions!" L said, and returned to the book quite discontentedly. She peered over it again. "Why are you bothering me?"

"Because I want to," said the boy.

"Oh, shut up," said L, her eyes darting to the text, and the boy laughed again.

"You're much more interesting than the other girls here," he said. "Even the bookish ones that stayed inside today."

"If that's intended to be a compliment, then thank you," L said flatly.

"It is, and you're welcome," said the boy. "You're kind of an enigma, y'know. I wanted to know who you were."

"Flattered," L said.

"No, honestly!" the boy said. "Nobody knows a thing about you; you always keep to yourself, or get in trouble. Plus that whole thing with that name of yours. Most people think it's just a nickname or something, but you never know. Who named you after a letter, anyways?"

"You ask a lot of questions, Nosy One," L said. "You haven't even told me _your_ name, you know."

"Ah, sorry," said the boy. "I'm Josiah."

"Josiah." L tasted the word in her mouth,

"Yeah, Josiah," he said. "I, uh, don't have any nicknames of my own, really."

"What gives you the assumption I have nicknames?" L said. "I just have one name. Just L."

"That's kinda... I dunno, neat," said Josiah. "Your real name's really L?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Your parents give you that name?" he asked. "Must have been really―"

"My mother named me, but improperly," said L. Merely mentioning the woman brought back memories, and her naked toes curled. "I chose my current, _proper_ name myself."

"What did she name you?" Josiah asked, but L refused to answer. "Ah. Embarrassing, is it?"

"Mortifyingly," L said sarcastically. Josiah let out a slightly nervous chuckle.

"Okay, then, we won't talk about it," he said. "Why do you call yourself L, then?"

"Various reasons," L replied, and turned the page. "Mostly because girls names are so idiotic. I hate girls."

"But you _are_ a girl," said Josiah.

L looked up, and stared at the boy in the chair. "No, I'm not," she said.

Josiah burst into laughter, with his strange frozen shoulders. "Not a girl, huh? No way. Unless you really _are _a guy..." His laughter stopped, and he stared at L in an expression that was almost surprised and pitiful. "Wow, then it really would be embarrassing to have a girl's name."

"I'm not a boy either," L said, glaring and her fingers tightening on the book again.

Josiah laughed again, but it began to sound forced, in a way. "Then what_ are _you?" he said.

"A human being," said L. "Just a person. Like a letter. Or... something of that sort." She closed the book and looked at the pattern of horses on its cover. "Stop bothering me."

"But I'm nosy," Josiah said with a mischievous grin. "You should know that. I won't stop until I get answers, Miss L."

L's fingers curled around the book tightly. "I asked you to stop calling me that," she said.

"Miss L, Miss L," Josiah said in a sing-songy tone, bobbing his head about as if listening to some music that L could not hear. "Lovely Little Miss L, with eyes like onyx and hair like jet! Lovely Miss L; Princess L, even."

"Stop it, stop it, _stop it_!" L said, and when he didn't, she tossed the book at him.

However, he did not catch it, as she had expected, and it instead hit him square in the chest.

"Ow! That hurts! That really hurts!" Josiah said, wincing, his fingers curling weakly, but he did not move his arms to rub where he had been hurt, or adjust the book that lay, pages bending unnaturally, against his leg. "Why'd you go and do that?"

"Why didn't you catch it?" L replied. "You could have caught it."

Josiah smiled weakly as the pain ebbed away. "I _can't_," he said, and wiggled his fingers as he had been doing previously. "Nearly-paralyzed from the neck down. See? Can only really move my fingers, and that's just because I've been practicing. Parents gave me up 'cause I'd be too expensive to raise."

"...oh," said L, and held her knees. Her thin eyebrows knit together and upwards. "Pardon me for throwing the book at you, then, but stop calling me names."

"Hey, it's okay. Really," said Josiah. "Don't suppose you could really tell, huh?"

"Only slightly," L replied. "I... shouldn't have done that."

Josiah laughed unexpectedly. "Well, I guess I sorta deserved it," he said. "You really _were_ serious about the whole name-calling thing. Sorry about that."

"Apology accepted," L said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Nosy Thing, I have to go to my Spanish lesson."

"Come back to the library again soon," Josiah said with a smile, as she dismounted the chair. "I'd like to talk to you more."

"I don't know if I'll agree to that," L said, picking the book, the pages of which were now bent rather badly out of shape, up off his lap. "Good-bye."

Carrying the thing away, Josiah said, brightly, "Bye! See you later, L."

What an annoying boy.

-///-

"I was bothered today," L said abruptly in the middle of her lesson, as she sat at a table with Quillsh in a more private study. A cup of tea, several heaping spoonfuls of sugar added, sat half-finished to her right.

"Really? By what?" said Quillsh, setting down the flashcards that held L's new set of vocabulary to learn. He peered curiously over his glasses.

"Some boy in the library. He seemed to have an interest in me," she replied.

"A boy? Having an interest in you?" Quillsh said, tapping the cards on the table as his mouth drooped downward in interest.

"Perplexing, I know," L replied, almost teasing. Quillsh chuckled.

"What is his name?" he asked.

"Josiah."

"Oh, _that_ one," he said, and neatly shuffled the flashcards.

"You know him?" said L, and reached for her tea.

"I know every child in his house, L," Quillsh said matter-of-factly, and shuffled the flashcards again.

"Oh," L said. "Then what makes him unique, other than his physical state?"

"Ah, you mean the wheelchair?" said Quillsh, and set down the cards, face-down, permanently. "Well, he's exceptionally bright. Exceptionally. Reminds me, somewhat, of you. Much more social, however."

L sipped her tea spitefully. "Really."

"Well, more of a passing resemblance," Quillsh chuckled, and L stoically took another sip of tea. "Very observant, he is. And very kind."

Again, L said, "Really."

Quillsh frowned a little. "You certainly don't look pleased."

"He's an annoying thing," she replied. "He made me mad and ruined my afternoon."

"Did he, now?" said Quillsh.

"I threw a book at him," L said.

Quillsh sighed, and kneaded his forehead a little as L sipped her tea. "Not this again."

"I apologized properly, however, and did not harm him harshly," she said, and glared at him. "It was not like Anthony."

It had been a few months since the incident with Anthony, that much was true, but the event was still fresh in both of their minds. Anthony had avoided L at all costs ever since, going so far as to run to the farthest part of the hallway from her if he ever happened to pass her there.

"Well, all right, then. What did he do, to make you throw the book at him?" Quillsh said, binding the flashcards with a rubber band.

"Called me names," she replied. "Princess L."

Quillsh fought the urge to laugh, and lost. "What?"

"Called me Miss L, and Princess L," L grumbled, and Quillsh continued to laugh. "I don't see what's funny!"

"Princess L... goodness, I'm going to have quite a talk with him about this. I'm sorry, it sounds funny," he said; and then asked, of all things, "What book did you throw at him, by the way?"

"_The Catcher in the Rye_," L said, and held her teacup dejectedly upside-down. It was empty. "I don't like it very much."

"So I see," Quillsh said. "Was he hurt badly?"

"He seems fine; the book's pages got bent, however, but I don't care," said L, and dangled the teacup from her index finger. "If something more severe occurs, then all the blame is mine."

"It's refreshing to see you so civil, L," said Quillsh. L gave no reply, her eyes fixed on the teacup. He laced his fingers together. "Ahem." She looked at him briefly. "Would you be interested in traveling somewhere again?"

"New York, again?" said L, her eyes darting to him again. "I will not wear a dress."

"No, no, not there..." Quillsh said. "I was thinking more along the lines of... Spain, perhaps?"

"What would we be doing there?" L asked.

"Visiting, sight-seeing, practicing your fluency," he said. "If you wish to go, we'll be departing on Sunday."

"Then we shall do that," said L, and put down the teacup. Cat-like, she stepped down from the chair and made her way to the door.

"And where are you going?" Quillsh asked, getting up as well to put away the flashcards.

"I shall go inform Josiah of my absence," she said. "I don't want the nosy thing to be wasting his time waiting for me in the library while we're gone."

Quillsh chuckled as the girl left, and neatly filed the flashcards away in a drawer.

-///-

L decided that Spain was much more boring than she originally thought.

She had no problem with speaking fairly fluently to people, and there wasn't much to see that interested her. There had been a puppeteer on the street that was very good at what he did, manipulating the strings on his little wooden dog so well that it very well may have been alive. L thought he did a fantastic job, and after asking Wammy, dropped the man a little money. He grinned with many missing teeth, and made the remainder of her day a little less boring.

There was a Wammy House in Madrid, which Quillsh arranged for them to stay at, and the orphans were somewhat more well-mannered than the children back at home, L thought, if not half as smart. She holed herself up in the library and practiced reading in Spanish, unless Quillsh wanted to take her somewhere. Usually, the places he took her were just slightly more interesting than the orphanage, but nothing to write home about.

Upon returning home, L found Josiah waiting for her in the library, reclined comfortably in an armchair. His legs dangled, limp and seemingly lifeless, over the edge of the cushions.

"Nice to see you home," he said with a smile, and she began up a ladder to the bookshelves.

"Spain was utterly boring," L replied. "I'm glad to have returned."

Josiah laughed. "Is that so? What did you do?"

"Absolutely nothing, Nosy One," she replied, choosing a book. "And what have you been doing? I told you not to wait for me in the library while I'm gone."

"My aide told me you'd be coming back today, and I wanted somebody new to read to me," he said. "I can't really read books on my own, you know."

"As I can assume," L said, climbing down the ladder. "What makes you think I read well aloud?"

"Just a feeling," Josiah said sunnily. L sighed, and reached the floor. "If you don't want to read to me, why don't you tell me what you did in Spain?"

"Suppose I wish to read alone; would you honor my decision?" she replied, slightly annoyed.

"Well, that's no fun," said Josiah. "Come on, tell me what you did in Spain."

Holding her copy of _Gulliver's Travels_, L perched on the wide arm of Josiah's chair, and told him everything.

"Next time, I'll have to write you a letter," she said, after finishing. "It's far too bothersome to say it all."

"You didn't say much of anything, you know," Josiah replied. "I enjoyed it anyways. Are you going to read to me, now?"

"Absolutely not," L replied, and left for her room.

Josiah laughed, smiling and enjoying the memory of her dry recollection of Spain, and hoping she'd come back soon. She was definitely more interesting than the rest of the girls at the House.

L was resolved, however, to send the bothersome boy a letter the next time Quillsh took her somewhere. They were going to start French lessons soon.


	5. Drowning in the River of Lethe

"I'm feeling a little ill," L declared, and collapsed on the carpet in the library

Josiah, who had been waiting for her in his usual chair for her, chuckled at this. "L, that's not a very funny joke," he said. "Come on, get up. Weren't you going to keep reading that Douglas Adams book to me?"

L did not stir.

"...L, come on. Get up," Josiah continued, beginning to feel a little nervous. "This isn't very funny."

L moaned softly.

"Vera!" Josiah cried—L would never joke around like this to that extent. "Vera, come quick, please! Please!"

Josiah's personal aide, with strong arms that carried him where he wished, entered quickly. Immediately, she noticed L's crumpled form, pale with dark hair and blue jeans against the white ground.

"I think there's something wrong with her!" Josiah said, flexing his fingers, as he could not wring his hands. "She's not getting up."

Vera knelt down to touch the girl's neck—the skin was astoundingly warm.

"She's sick," she said, her voice soft but urgent. "Poor thing's got a fever." With a smooth, practiced motion, she had the feverish child cradled in her arms, all bones and skin. She felt more like a mannequin than a child, with her hard limbs.

I'll get her to the infirmary," she said, calming Josiah's worrying eyes. "Then, I'll come back for you."

And with that, L was carried away, Josiah left to worry in his chair.

-///-

L seemed to be doing a little better, once the house's doctor had examined her. She was conscious, and already making dry remarks again.

"I'm not as ill as you think I am," she said, sitting up in an infirmary bed. "Let me go back to the library. I don't want the Annoying One to worry _himself_ sick." By Annoying One, of course, she meant Josiah. It was one of her favorite nicknames for him.

Quillsh, who had been called immediately after her collapse, sighed. "You still have a fever, L, and you need to rest until the doctor knows what's gotten you sick," he said.

"I am _not_ sick," L retorted.

"Of course you aren't," Quillsh said.

"Let me go to the library again," repeated L, glaring. "I'm well enough."

"Let us make a compromise," said Quillsh, leaning forward. "I'll let you stay in your own room, and Josiah will be brought to you. How about that?"

"I suppose," L said, and swung her legs over the side of her bed. However, she fell to the floor, finding herself too weak to stand. "Shit," she said crossly.

"And _where_ did you learn language like that?" Quillsh asked, his eyebrows rising.

"That is none of your business," L said. "Help me up."

"I'll carry you," he replied, and picked her up with little effort.

She had already fallen asleep by the time her room was reached.

Delicately, tenderly, Quillsh tucked her into the bed. Dr. Soliell, the physician to the Winchester House, was waiting for him outside her door.

"Stubborn as always," Quillsh said gently. "She's exhausted, isn't she?"

"That, and a very bad cold," Dr. Soliell replied. "She has a fever of nearly 39 degrees, on my last reading."

"Goodness," said Quillsh.

"I can find something to lower that fever of hers, perhaps," the doctor continued. "She also needs rest, and lots of it."

"I'll watch her, if you can go get that medicine for her," said Quillsh.

"Right," said Dr. Soliell, and left. Quillsh stood, feeling slightly helpless, before returning to L's room. She continued to sleep.

-///-

The next day, L was doing no better.

She slept uneasily, feverish despite the injection Dr. Soliell had given her the day before. When she was awake enough, she was either trekking to the bathroom to vomit in the toilet, or in too sour a mood to speak, on account of her losing control of her stomach.

Luckily for Quillsh, L was far too exhausted for this to be a common occurrence.

She lay on her back under the covers, making small fussy noises every once and a while. Her eyes were tightly closed.

Quillsh felt her forehead, and she squirmed slightly—still hot.

"Her fever should be going down by now," Dr. Soliell had said, the evening before.

And it certainly wasn't, Quillsh thought, as he stroked her forehead.

He had hardly left her side since the day before, and found himself very worried. Children had been sick before, but L was one of the few that he had gone through such lengths with.

The other had been a little boy named (of all things) Jester, back in 1978.

He was a happy, bright child; black, with a shaved head that shone in the sun when he went outside to play. He had come to live at the Winchester House after a visit to the Chicago branch left Quillsh with a very good impression.

Quillsh always remembered seeing him smiling, no matter the circumstance. His knee had been gashed open, once, and all he could do was laugh about it, even as they stitched it up.

"It's okay, Mister Wammy," he giggled, as they sat in the emergency room together. "It's not so bad! I'm fine, I'm _fine_."

He was diagnosed with brain cancer when he was 14, in 1983. He died shortly afterward, smiling, the tumor pressing hard against his pleasure center and allowing him no other feeling but euphoria.

Quillsh missed him dearly.

His fingers continued to brush L's hair away from her hot forehead, his thoughts wandering to the days when Jester was still well. Quillsh would pat the boy's head whenever he had discovered something new, and eagerly run to tell him about it.

"Look, look!" he would say. He always repeated things.

So much hope, in those days.

It had been little more than three years since his death, and now that L was sick… well, he couldn't help but worry. He was becoming more attached to the child ("Not girl," he heard L tell him in his mind) than he expected.

It was how, he supposed, a father felt.

L moaned a little and turned over, and he gently rubbed her shoulder. "There, there," he said. "You're all right."

"…mmdon'tgo…" she mumbled.

"L, I won't go anywhere," he said, chuckling a little. "You get your rest."

"…don't go…!" L said again, her eyes closed as tight as ever.

"L, I'm not leaving," he replied, still rubbing her back. "I'm here, I'm here."

She fussed a little more, curling tightly into a ball. She shivered beneath the sheets.

Quillsh smiled kindly. "L, would you like me to tell you a story?"

"…mmdon'tgo… Don't go'way," L replied.

He patted her a little. "Don't worry, I won't go anywhere. Now, where to start…"

And he began.

"Once, there was a man. He lived in a house with this wife, and he loved her very much. She was clever, beautiful; but above all, she was kind. She loved the man as well, and they both lived happily.

"The man and the woman both wanted a child of their own, and… waited a good long while to see if they would be blessed with one. But the days passed, and their house remained empty, save for the two of them.

"The woman began to get very sad, for she wanted a child very badly, and her husband did as well. Then, she began to sneak out of the house, late at night, and not return until early morning. And her husband did not worry about her, for he knew she would be safe on her own.

"One day, the woman discovered she was going to be a mother at last. She and the man were overjoyed, and began making preparations for their child.

"One morning, however, the man woke to find his wife missing from their bed.

"She had been… killed, and he found her in the house, cold and covered in her blood.

"No matter how hard the man tried and searched, he could never find who had killed his wife and child, and he fell into a great despair.

"He swore, one day, that he would live to see a world where tragedy would never strike unknown; that those who lost things precious to them would regain them, or learn enough to grieve properly in their loss.

"The man is searching for that world, to this very day."

L's sleep had calmed. She no longer shivered.

Quillsh took off his glasses to wipe at his eye, before leaning over and giving her a bristly kiss on the top of her head.

"Sleep well, little L," he said softly.

-///-

L dreamed of her mother.

It was not a pleasant dream.

She was in that hell that she once called a home; a shabby, one-bedroom apartment with peeling yellow wallpaper and a frayed sofa. L slept on the sofa; her mother used the bed.

L was watching television, but in the dream, she could not make out what exactly was on the screen. The stink of cheap air freshener, however, was strong.

Sunlight filled the yellow room, making it even more yellow, and giving emphasis to the dust floating in the air.

Then the door opened, and in came her mother.

Her mother, who had once been beautiful; who had once been _somebody_. Now she was weak, and ugly. Her dark hair was matted, her eyes dark from makeup and lack of sleep.

She had a man with her.

L held her knees tightly, sinking into the back of the couch; she held her head low. She wanted to disappear, to not see what was going on.

But her mother continued on, staggering to her bedroom with the man. Her cheap, pawn shop jewelry sparkled and glittered. Neither of them noticed the tiny child huddled against the arm of the couch.

The door to her bedroom closed, and the noise began. L covered her ears with her hands, trying not to hear it, but the rhythmic thumping continued. It went on for what seemed like forever, L felt, and she could do nothing but hold her legs and hate and hate and hate.

And then it was over. The man left, still not noticing L, and it was quiet.

Then her mother began to cry. She left the bedroom, in nothing but her bathrobe, and just cried, holding a small plastic bag of something. Her makeup ran down her face.

"I'm sorry," she would say. "I'm so, so sorry."

L hated her mother.

It was not a pleasant dream.

-///-

"So, you feeling any better?" Josiah asked her, two days later. She sat up in bed, spitefully sucking at her nutrient shake, as he reclined in a chair at her bedside.

"Worlds," she replied. "I wish that oaf Doctor Soliell would tell me when I can go outside again." She took a long sip through her straw. "He's not a very good doctor if he can't do that, is he?"

Josiah laughed. "No, I suppose not. Think you're well enough to read, though?"

"And why do you want to know?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Because I'm _dying_ to see what's going to happen to Ford," Josiah said, in a tone of utmost jesting. "Come on, don't you?"

"Oh, stop it," L said. "Not that book again. He's just a fictional character."

"Isn't that the point?" Josiah teased.

"Don't make me throw this at you," L said, threateningly raising the shake can. She was smiling, however.

"Oh, no! Whatever am I to do?" Josiah said, in a mock wail.

"Stop bothering me, and letting me get the book," L said, leaving the bed. "Stay here."

"Do I have any choice?" Josiah replied, as L scampered down the hallway in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a very, very oversized t-shirt.

Quillsh caught her by the collar as she attempted to sneak up the stairs, book in her clutches. "And where do you think you're going?" he asked. "You're supposed to be in bed."

"I was on my way there, thank you," she replied, tugging at his grasp somewhat weakly. "The Annoying One insisted I read to him."

"How inconsiderate of him," Quillsh said, chuckling.

"Yes, quite," L replied. "Please let go of me."

"Back in bed with you," he said gently, releasing her and pushing her forward a little. "This instant."

"All right, all right," L said, smiling very slightly. She reached the top of the stair, him smiling at her with his hands in his pockets, when she turned around and said something very unexpected indeed:

"I'm really very sorry about what happened to your wife and child," she said, a hint of genuine compassion in her normally dry, high-pitched voice. "You would have been an excellent father, I think."

Before he could say anything in return, she was gone and on her way to her room, to read to Josiah.

He took off his glasses and dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief.

This child was definitely the one.


	6. Mmnemosyne's Wrath

Two birth certificates lay on the table in front of Quillsh Wammy, and he stared at them for a very long time.

They belonged to L, but even like the child itself, they were odd. The things were amazingly scarce, compared to other birth certificates on file at the Winchester House.

The first birth certificate, the short form, was a little more normal-looking: it stated L's full name (Elle Ashlynn Lawliet), and that she was female; that she was born in New York City; that her father was unknown; that her mother's name was Kaye L. Lawliet; that her birth date was October 31, 1979.

The long form, which was photocopied from whichever hospital had first issued it, was far more bizarre.

There were many things missing from it: a time of birth, for instance, as well as which hospital she was born at, and nearly everything about her mother or her pregnancy. It almost seemed to him like L had simply come into existence, one day, fully-formed and speaking dryly as she always did—like the goddess Athena, who sprang from Zeus' head, fully formed. But he knew, of course, that was illogical. Even Athena had a mother, as well.

And because he knew this, he was perplexed.

However, he had a lead: the name of L's mother. Neatly taking the certificates and placing them back in the cream-colored folder that held other documents regarding L—evidence of hospital transfers, plane tickets, reports on her behavior—he placed it in his desk and took out a small book of telephone numbers. He searched and found what he was looking for, dialed a number, and waited a good long time before somebody picked up.

"Hello, New York City Police Department, this is George Pedderson," a male voice said, sounding extremely bored. "How may I help you?"

"George, it's Quillsh," Quillsh said.

"Hey, Wammy! How's it going?" the voice replied, losing its stuffy air of bureaucracy. "What time is it over there? It must be late..."

"Only 10 PM, George," Quillsh said. "I have a favor to ask of you."

"Ask away! Anything for an old friend," George replied. "What do you need?"

"I need you to go into the archives for me," Quillsh said. "There's information I need on a woman named Kaye Lawliet."

"K Law-light?" George said. "How d'you spell that?"

"K as in Kite, A as in Apple, Y as in Yesterday, E as in Enemy," Quillsh said, and heard a scratching noise in the background. "Got all that?"

"Okay, go on?" George said.

"L as in Light, A as in Apple, W as in Watermelon, L as in Light, I as in Icicle, E as in Earth, T as in-"

"Wait, what was that last one?" said George.

"E? As in-" Quillsh began.

"No, no the one before that," George interrupted. "What was it?"

"I, as in Ibis?" said Quillsh, helpfully.

"Yeah, that's the one," said George. "Okay, go on."

"E, as in Earth, and T, as in Turtle," Quillsh ended. "Kaye Lawliet."

"Okay, I got all that," said George. The scratching stopped. "Wow, interesting last name. So, what do you want me to find on her?"

"Anything you can," Quillsh said. "And, if you could, please photocopy it and send it to me?"

"Sure," said George. "Hey, Wammy, just curious—why do you need to know about this woman?"

"She's the mother of one of the children in my care," Quillsh replied. "It's really somewhat urgent that I get some background information on her."

"Oh yeah," George said. "Still doing orphanage work, eh, Wammy?"

"Of course," Quillsh said. "Thank you very much, George. Say hello to your wife for me, would you?"

"Eh, not too sure I'll do that, Wammy," George said with a chuckle. "She's pregnant again, and irritable as hell. I've been staying in a hotel lately, to keep her from tossing another vase at me!"

"Remember to duck, my friend!" Quillsh said, laughing. "Take care, George."

"Yeah, you too," George said, and hung up.

-///-

A good week and a half later, a large manila envelope arrived at the Winchester House for Quillsh.

What lay within surprised him a great deal.

There was a note from George, first and foremost: "Here's your info, Wammy. I seriously pity any kid she had. -George."

He had indeed expected a note from the man, but the second line sent a bit of a chill up his spine. Cautiously, he continued through the stack.

What he found was crime report after report after report, detailing her countless encounters with officers of the law for being out at ungodly hours in the streets, almost every one involving suspicion of selling or possessing an illegal substance. However, she spent, at most, only a few days altogether in custody—the only thing she had done to get in trouble, officially, was get arrested at a club where cocaine was being dealt and snorted or shot up. There was no solid evidence that she did or sold drugs, and the reports stated that quite clearly.

A pair of mug shots were attached to the reports, and Quillsh became quite unnerved as he stared at the pictures of the woman that the papers claimed were L's mother.

She was ragged and worn; her clothes, or what could be seen from the photographs, were sensible, yet dirty. Her hair was long, and very dark, and tangled as it fell into her face. But it was her eyes that haunted him the most.

They were eyes that, in the black-and-white-photocopies, seemed to almost shine through the paper and pierce him through his heart. They were eyes that mocked the camera, and the policeman behind it, and all those that might view her face in the future. Her mouth, turned upwards in a dry smile, echoed the sentiment.

She had eyes that _knew_ things. L had the same eyes.

The final inclusion of the envelope was a death certificate, and a newspaper clipping.

Kaye Lawliet, it seemed, was murdered in her apartment on a spring night in 1983.

The only mention of L was in the clipping, of a "child, presumably Lawliet's daughter, found at the scene, hiding behind the couch and remaining mute as authorities took her away. Neighbors maintain that Lawliet, however, was not known to be a mother, nor to keep children in her house."

Ideas began to form in his mind as he read the reports and the clippings over and over again. Possible reasons for L's current behavior; reasons for her recent nightmares, which caused him to take out the certificates to see if he could find anything on her background. It was about time that he did so anyways, he felt.

Later the next day, she came in for her German lesson, as usual. She had mastered French a few weeks before, after little more than a month or two of tutoring and her own private study, ending with a trip to Paris with Quillsh, much like what they had done months earlier in Spain. A trip to West Germany, L felt, was probably in her near future.

She began to grow suspicious when Quillsh didn't take out the textbook and flashcards as he usually did.

"What do you really want to do, this afternoon?" she asked, scowling a little from her chair across the table. "We're obviously not going to be practicing German."

"I'd like to talk to you," Quillsh said simply. "Just ask you a few questions."

"It depends on what sorts of questions you want to ask," L said, crossing her arms.

"Simple ones, really," Quillsh said, his voice somewhat comforting. After all, he didn't know how L would react to the events to come. "Mostly about yourself."

"I guess," L said, glancing at the wall as she sat down in her chair and drew her knees up to her chest.

"All right. First off, is your middle name Ashlynn?" Quillsh asked her. L's toes curled.

"Unfortunately, yes," she replied, looking particularly annoyed.

"And, did you live in New York City before your mother died?"

L's eyes whipped from the wall to his face. She looked almost shocked. "...yes, I did," she replied after a long time.

"Your mother's name was Kaye, wasn't it?" Quillsh asked, and upon hearing the name, L's toes curled again.

"That was her name," she said softly.

Quillsh reached into a folder on the table, pulled out the photocopied mug shots of Kaye, and slid it on the surface towards L. "Is this what she looked like?"

L's face grew tight, her eyes wide. "What do you want to know?" she said, sounding either furious, or... scared.

"I just want to know if this is really your mother, L," Quillsh said, trying to sound a little gentler than usual.

L gave him a glare of utter hatred. "That is the woman that had me, but she is by no means my mother," she said softly.

Quillsh, unnerved, continued. "But did she raise you at all?"

"We lived in the same apartment," L replied, continuing to glare. "That's where it ends. I don't ever consider her my mother. She hardly raised me."

A memory flickered in Quillsh's mind—Christmas Eve, in New York. The ball. L's words. She was uncomfortable. The reports started giving some sense. "Did she leave you alone in the house?"

L did not answer, staring at him like an ill-tempered dog that was about to bite him.

He frowned. "L, answer me," he said. Still, she said nothing. He sighed. "L, I'm just worried about you. I want to know if that's why you're frightened of being alo-"

"I am not scared of being alone!" she yelled, slamming her palms on the table. "Why won't you just stop asking these questions? _I am not scared_!"

"I'm worried about you, L," Quillsh said again, trying to keep his voice from rising with his very long temper. "You've just been having nightmares, recently. The aides told me you talked in your sleep about your mother, and-"

"Tell them to mind their own damn business, and you too," L interrupted. "My dreams aren't of your concern."

The sentence itself was rather ridiculous, and Quillsh would have otherwise laughed at her, but he found himself a little too frustrated to do so. "Mind your temper, L," he said.

"I'll start minding my temper when we stop talking about me, and start with German," she replied tartly. "I don't wish to speak of that woman ever again."

"Do you hate your mother_ that _much?" Quillsh said, softly, after a long time, and L gave him a look that spoke only one thing:

"More than you could ever believe."

"Let's drop the subject," said Quillsh, sighing. "It's making you upset, I'm sorry. I'm just very worried about you, L."

"There's nothing for you to worry about," L said, still scowling at him, but the scared look remaining in her eyes. "Let's continue."

Her eyes drifted towards the floor, and it almost seemed like her voice had faltered. Quillsh said nothing. "Go on, let's start. _Let's practice some German_," she added in the language in question. She still didn't look at him.

"L, is something the matter?" Quillsh asked.

"There's nothing the matter," L said, but she clutched her knees and refused to let her eyes be seen. A small spot on her shirt turned unexpectedly dark.

"Are you... crying?"

"I am not crying!" L shouted, but bent her head deeper into the curve of her jeans. It almost sounded like she was muttering something, under her breath.

Concerned, Quillsh left his seat and stood behind her, reaching to rub her back. L snapped back and gripped his arm with a claw-like hand, her face enraged. Her eyes were red; she _had _been crying.

"Don't you _dare_ touch me," she said. Her grip hurt.

"L! Let... go!" Quillsh said, wrenching his arm from the girl and staring at her. His temper had begun to rise again since she had looked so painfully at him. "I understand if you're upset, but it's no reason to-"

"Shut _up_, you fucking bastard," L said, her shoulders rising as she looked at him. She resembled, almost, a medieval illustration of a demon, her eyes wide and her back curved. A pair of leathery wings and maybe some horns, and she wouldn't have been out of place in a painting by Bosch. "I want to practice German."

Quillsh Wammy's very, very durable patience was now at its end.

Within seconds, he had grabbed L by both of her arms with one hand, forced her legs into a sitting position with the other, and pressed her hands hard against her lap. His face was creased with anger.

"Elle Ashlynn Lawliet, I shall not tolerate language of that sort in this house. _Nor_ shall I tolerate any sort of violence towards me," he said, his voice at a level of sternness he had hardly used since his days in the military. "I am your caretaker, and you shall respect me and anyone else within this house. Am I making myself clear?!"

L, for the first time in Quillsh's memory, looked completely and utterly scared.

Tears leaked out of her eyes as she did nothing but blink, not even bothering to try and escape Quillsh's hold. She then began to breathe erratically, biting her lip. 

"I-I'm sorry!" she stammered. "I'm sorry! I won't do it again, I won't! I shouldn't have lied! I shouldn't have lied!" Her face, wrinkling into sobs, turned red, and she let her hair fall into her face. "Please, don't hurt me! Don't hurt me..."

Quillsh, surprised and somewhat guilty that he had made her cry, slowly loosened his grip on her hands. Almost immediately, her legs curled back up onto the chair, and she held her face in her hands as she cried.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she was saying softly, rocking back and forth as if she were chanting. "I won't lie, I won't lie again, I'll never lie again, I won't, I won't lie..."

He left her alone like this for quite a time, as her sobs turned into quiet sniffles, and the rocking came to a stop. Quillsh gently put his hand on her back, as he had originally intended to do. Her head jerked up, her face blotchy and upset and shocked.

Gently, he slid his other hand under her legs and cradled her in his arms, letting her cry on his shoulder as he sat down on her chair.

"L, I'm sorry," he said, gently stroking her back with his hand. "I promise you, I'll never, ever hurt you again. I promise."

"I'll never lie," L whimpered, between sniffs. "Never, no, never."

The mug shot of Kaye Lawliet and her knowing eyes remained, untouched, on the desk.


	7. The World, According to Atlas

It was a cool October morning when L turned 8 years old.

She woke on her bed, the windows rimmed in frost, completely unaware of the fact. Birthdays were never much of a special occasion for her, anyways. It was just the day that she happened to slip from a fetus to an infant, and begin breathing air. Nothing all that special.

She couldn't remember any instance where she had really celebrated the day, although one of the kinder hospitals that had taken her in (it was more of a foster home than anything) had given her a cupcake when she turned 5, with a candle in it. L could remember it even then: a cheap little confection with pink icing and sprinkles. It took her nearly an hour to eat, dipping her finger into the cake or the frosting and eating it, fingertip-ful by tip-ful. Though it paled in comparison to some of the things she had eaten in Quillsh's care, it was one of the most delicious things she had ever eaten.

Knowing Quillsh, she would be absolutely babied on this birthday. He had been much gentler towards her, since the incident with her mother's photograph from the month or so before. The memories of the event were dim, but L appreciated it, if only just a little, and was glad that he would never mention the woman again.

However, L was unaware of any of this as she sat up and discontentedly rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. She had fallen asleep at her desk, putting together a small model airplane, and had woken up on her bed. Obviously, Quillsh's doing.

The model sat completed there, as she had left it, but a small note card lay propped up against it. Clambering off the bed, she took a look at it. Quillsh's handwriting said, "Happy Birthday, L. Get dressed and come downstairs for breakfast."

So it _was_ her birthday, she thought, and the memories and thoughts that were associated with the day began to click through her mind, systematically, as she exchanged her shirt and jeans for a fresh pair.

She half expected to see Quillsh sitting in an armchair with a newspaper and tea, like he had been on Christmas, but nothing but the rug on the floor greeted her as she came down the stairs. It was to the kitchen, then.

He was fully-dressed (unusually nicely, she noticed) and sipping tea from a white china cup, and he smiled as he saw her. "Happy birthday," he said. "Are you prepared to leave?"

L furrowed her thin little eyebrows. "Leave for where?"

"We'll be spending the day in London for your birthday," he said. "Drink your shake and get your coat on, we'll be driving to the train station."

"London?" L said, and Quillsh nodded. "What are we going to do there?"

"Anything you want," Quillsh replied, and sipped at his tea again. "It is your birthday, after all."

"I see," L said, and reached into the cupboard for oner of her shakes. Though her face didn't show it at all, Quillsh could tell she was extremely excited by the haste in which she drank the thing.

Shortly afterward, L was wrapped in her tan coat and white scarf, and she and Quillsh were off to Winchester station. L slept for most of the time on the train, but not before telling Quillsh that she fully intended on visiting the museums, "to do something productive."

And so, they arrived a little more than an hour later in London Waterloo station, which was noisy and decidedly not something L liked. Very quickly afterward, Quillsh purchased tickets for them, and together they rode on the Tube to South Kensington station. The Science and Natural History museums loomed nearby, and L gave a look of absolute and utter, if not fleeting, delight.

"You may go anywhere you wish," Quillsh said, and L forcefully tugged on his arm as she made her way to the Natural History museum.

The hours were spent with her peering into glass cases and inspecting little models, needing a lot of the time for Quillsh to pick her up so she could get a better look. He offered to carry her, but most of the time, she refused unless she absolutely needed it. Subsequently, Quillsh got a very good work-out in on his arms and back.

After exhausting the resources of the museums, L decided that it wouldn't be half-bad to go see a movie, perhaps, and so they went to find a theater. She and Quillsh stared down the posters of showings together. The options weren't very promising.

"I don't suppose you'd want to see _Fatal Attraction_, now, would you?" Quillsh asked.

"No."

"_Hellraiser_ not your cup of tea?"

"Not at all."

"_Baby Boom_?"

"Absolutely not."

Quillsh sighed. "Then what do you wish to watch?" He wasn't very sure that L would want to see a children's movie, as there didn't seem to be anything worth her attention out in the theaters.

"I think I'd like _The Princess Bride_, actually," L said, which surprised Quillsh.

"Really?" he said, and she nodded. "Then let's go get our tickets."

"Let's," L said, smiling. And, in the cool theater, alternating between a box of Swedish Fish and chocolate-covered peanuts, L experienced her first movie in a theater.

-///-

When the show finished a little more than an hour later, Quillsh was wondering who had suddenly kidnapped L from him, and who they had replaced her with, for he could never remember seeing the girl talking so eagerly and so quickly before.

"Oh, that was just so amazing, did you see the sword fighting and, oh my God I just can't believe how wonderful that was and, Wesley's just so amazing and, I just loved Miracle Max and-"

"Hold your breath, L!" he said, laughing. "My goodness."

She caught herself and reigned in her expression, pinching it together. "My apologies," she said. This caused him to laugh even more.

"No need to apologize for getting excited over a film, L," he said. "Did you enjoy it?"

"Yes. I did," she said sternly.

"You can go on like you were before, you know," said Quillsh. "Hold my hand." They pushed passed a small group of pedestrians. "It's not against any sort of rules."

L thought on this as they continued on, before finally speaking again. "The sword fights were excellent," she noted, which made Quillsh chuckle once more in the dry, academic air she had spoken it with.

"Whatever happened to your excitement over Fezzik and the Spaniard?" he said. L's face turned a little pink.

"They were all right, too," she admitted.

"Indeed," said Quillsh. "So, what would you say was your favorite part?"

"The Cliffs of Insanity," L said, with a slightly menacing, yet comedic voice. This incited a chuckle. "And the duel between Wesley and Inigo Montoya on the top, there. And Inigo finally getting his revenge on The Six-Fingered Man. I wish Buttercup would have done something worthwhile, though."

"Such as...?" said Quillsh.

"Not being completely useless and maybe defending herself once in a while," L said morosely. "Maybe if she were fighting with a sword. That would be interesting. Or kicking that little guy."

"The little man that kidnapped her?" Quillsh said, and she nodded. "I see."

"I really thought that machine that Humperdinck had was interesting, too..." L said, and tugged on Quillsh's arm. "Oh, could we get some hot chocolate please? It's cold out."

It was, indeed, rather chilly, so Quillsh nodded, and they sat down in a café while she ordered a hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream on top of it, while he simply had a cup of tea. The waitress that gave them their drinks smiled at them.

"Oh, how cute! Are you taking your granddaughter out for the day?" she asked. "It's a very nice Saturday to go out, after all."

"We're not related," L said coldly, and sent the waitress uncomfortably walking off. "Anyways." She dipped her finger on top of the whipped cream (she was sitting normally in the café, on Quillsh's insistence―"It may be your birthday, but our rules about going out in public still apply, L."). "It really got me thinking."

"What did?" Quillsh said, still laughing a little from the waitress incident.

"How Humperdinck's machine worked," she replied, and stuck the whipped cream in her mouth. "Do you really think there's a way to take life off a person like that?"

"Well, they say," Quillsh said, a little surprised (and yet, not) at the subject of the conversation, "that cigarettes can shorten your life by damaging your lungs. Is that a way?"

L shook her head, and swiped another dollop of whipped cream with her finger. "No. I mean... a way to take off years without it showing on your body. Like they did in the movie, you know?" She placed the dollop on her tongue, let it sit there for a moment, and then retreated her tongue back within her mouth.

"Well... no, I don't think there's a way to do that," Quillsh said. "Perhaps living conditions? Mental health?"

L poked the whipped cream, pouting a little. "Not what I had in mind," she said. "That whole machine's just an oddity. I love it." She scooped up the remainder of the whipped cream with a spoon, and ate it in one go. "I wish I knew how it worked. Do you think that life can be measured?"

Slightly taken aback, Quillsh answered, "Not that I know of, other than with cancer patients or people with terminal diseases, I guess."

"I see," said L. She took a sip of the hot chocolate, and grimaced. "Too hot. I wonder, though, if you can add life to a person by killing another."

"Excuse me?" Quillsh said, his eyes widening.

"Well, you know," L said, stirring the cocoa absently, "say that you have a man out to kill his wife. If you killed the man before he could do it, then the woman wouldn't die in the first place, and thus, she would live longer. So, it would be adding to her lifespan." She gave him a quizzical look. "You understand?"

"Vaguely," Quillsh replied.

"Well, say you had a way to somehow harness that way of lengthening or shortening a person's life," L continued, "without any sort of medical or scientific evidence. I wonder how you would do that?"

"I haven't a clue," said Quillsh. L clinked her spoon against her cup, and chewed on her thumb, the normal sign of her putting a great effort into thinking about something.

"Maybe you could do it by shortening the lives of people who are out to harm others," she said. "But, how would you do that? Killing them outright, maybe, but that's definitely not how Humperdinck's machine worked..."

Amused, yet surprised, Quillsh said, "My goodness, you're certainly thinking hard on the subject. Humperdinck's machine is just fantasy."

"Yes, I know," L said, frowning a little, "but there has to be some truth in things." She attempted to drink some cocoa again, and grimaced. "Too hot. The only way I can think of is getting rid of people that shorten lives." One of her legs crept up to her chair. "That presents a moral dilemma, though."

"Whether or not to kill the guilty?" said Quillsh, and L nodded. "That really is an opinion that's changed throughout the years."

"Indeed," L said. "If the lives of good people were lengthened in the process, though, then the pros definitely outweigh the cons."

"So I see," Quillsh said. He thought for a while, before sipping some more tea and clearing his throat. "So, tell me, L. If you had the mans to 'get rid of' anyone that would shorten the lives of others, would you do it?"

"Are you asking if I would willingly kill someone for a greater good?" Quillsh nodded, and L thought for a good long while. Her second leg rose to the chair, and she sat in a fully crouched position, her thumb bitten the whole while. Quillsh didn't say anything about it.

Her cocoa had finally cooled down by the time she reached a decision, and she took a good sip before replying. "Ah, yummy. If I had the means, I very well might," she said. "However, if I could control how the person died, I'd choose something peaceful or painless, like a heart attack or something."

"Highly improbable, but an interesting idea, L," he said. L gave him a slight smile, rimmed with brown from the cocoa.

"It really would be a bit of a nicer place, if everyone lived longer and more happy lives," she said, but then, unexpectedly frowned. "It would have also been made because a lot of people died, though, and that's not really pleasant. Also," she added, "unless I was God, or something, how am I to know who would lengthen or shorten another's lifespan?" She sighed. "It's too varied to just judge all at once as the same thing. It's best just to not bother, I think."

"Is that so?" said Quillsh, and L nodded. "Quite a philosophic view you've expressed."

"Thank you," L said, though her voice was detached. Her mind was occupied by other things. She had begun stirring the cocoa again, the spoon loosely grasped in her thumb and forefinger. "Quillsh, I should ask the same question of you, you know."

"Hm?" Quillsh said, over his tea.

"Would you willingly do away with someone, to serve a greater good?" she said.

Quillsh set down his cup and sighed, slightly smiling. "I already have," he said.

-///-

"Wammy, you daydreaming or something?"

Quillsh Wammy, 22 years old and already the darling of his squad as their sniper, stopped looking at the sky. "Sorry, Jacka," he laughed.

Emmanuel Jacka, his commander (but more of a close friend than a superior), lit a cigarette and sucked on it between rough, block-like fingers. "No need to apologize," he said the syllables shooting from his mouth like spit. "I'm bored, too."

"Are those Nazi blighters _ever_ going to show up?" sighed Cusher Figg, who was an impatient fellow and barely out of his teens. "It's more silent than a bloody _library_, it is."

"They'll show up when they show up," Jacka said gruffly, and took another puff. On the exhale, he noticed that Wammy was dreamily staring off into the ice-blue sky again. "Sure you'd be able to hear when they come, Wammy? You are our other lookout, you know."

Wammy's face snapped back to attention. "Huh?"

Jacka began to laugh, and Figg mustered a tired chuckle. Wammy blushed slightly.

There really wasn't all that much to do, other than crack a joke, play cards, or smoke a cigarette when waiting for a Nazi convoy to come rumbling through a small, abandoned French town. When the distant put-put of engines would crack through the silence, Jacka would send his men to hide while Wammy picked off the drivers and sent the Nazis into a panic. It was then that Jacka would attack.

After finishing their business, there would be rations for all, and they'd be allowed to head on home. When the business even _started_, anyways.

Wammy, Jacka, and Figg were all seated in the dusty old clock tower, mulling about as they had been for the past few days, waiting for that distant rumble. The rest of the men were out of sight, but present, in the buildings below. Of the three, Figg hated his post the most.

"We get to go home after we get this lot, don't we?" he said. He had asked the questions many times before.

"That's the plan," said Jacka.

"Bugger," Figg swore. "Those Nazi pigs must want to keep us as far away from there as possible."

"Figg, shh," Wammy said. Was that a strange crunch he heard?

"I mean, really, they've kept us waiting here for bloody _ages_," Figg continued, ignoring Wammy's request. "They must know we're, because _they_ said they'd be here _two days_ ago, and we haven't seen any-"

"Figg, shut up!" Wammy hissed. "Jacka, they're here."

Jacka grinned, finally getting his time to play, stomped his cigarette out under his boot, and climbed down the tower to alert the rest of the boys.

"'bout bloody time!" Figg said, crouching with his eyes over the ledge with Wammy. Wammy hushed him, and Figg instantly shut up. He was taking aim, regarded as an almost religious act amongst the rest of the men.

The cross-hair's scope above his rifle allowed him to make the best shot he could. He did have a nickname amongst everyone: Dead-Aim Wammy.

It meant that if you were in Wammy's aim, you were as good as dead.

The driver of the first car in the Nazi convoy put-putted his way down the road towards the town, dressed in a tan uniform and staring, rigidly, at the road.

Wammy shot. The driver's head exploded in a pink and red burst behind him with a violent shattering of glass, and the car spun out of control. Shots rang out. The death began.

-///-

"That was over 45 years ago," Quillsh said, sighing. L was staring at him, looking almost amazed.

"You actually did that?" she said. The cocoa had long since been drained from her cup. Quillsh nodded. "Do you regret it at all?"

"No, I don't," he said. "My job kept many people safe."

"Even though you killed others?" He nodded again.

No, Quillsh had no regrets―but he had suffered grand nightmares the night after his very first kill. Many nights afterward, in fact.

His skill didn't come without its price, after all.

"I could never do that," she continued, softly, gathering her knees. "It's too..." She refused to continue, although Quillsh had several guesses as to what she meant. "I really wish I could, though," she added.

"Learn how to operate a sniper rifle?"

"No!" L squeaked, and quickly composed herself again. "I mean to help other people, I guess. Though I couldn't do it by being an ambassador of an organization or a country or anything. I think that's all pretty pointless."

"Well, this is certainly a side of you I've never seen," Quillsh said. "What's spurred this on?"

"The talk of lifespans, I think, or something like that," L said, dragging her finger along the bottom of her cup as she collected the final dregs. "It feels nice to help people. But not directly, I think. Because, I guess," She put her finger in her mouth, "it's more of a surprise."

Quillsh found himself cheerfully amused by this recent resolve. "Anonymous aid?"

"Pretty much."

"Perhaps you'd like to become a benefactress when you're older?" he offered.

"It would be benefact_or_," L said sternly, "and I don't think I like that course of action very much. It's too much like something some rich person who doesn't care at all would do."

"So you say," said Quillsh, nodding. "Perhaps you'd like to work at the orphanage?"

"It's a possibility," L replied. She turned the cup upside down, and began playing with the napkin. "That might be a little trying, though. And I don't want to become a police officer."

"I see," said Quillsh.

"Though I did like when you took me to meet with Mr. Brady," L said, and Quillsh was slightly surprised―that was nearly a year ago. She still remembered him? "I was right on that one, wasn't I?"

"You were," Quillsh said. L smiled, and placed a small, improvised, flower-like shape on top of the upturned cup.

"I won, then," she said softly, an air of satisfaction in her voice. "Maybe that's what I'll do."

"Do what?"

"Become a detective. But an anonymous one. Like... a vigilante." She smiled, ever so slightly. "And you'd probably support me in this, wouldn't you? You did say you were looking for someone to prevent things like unsolved cases, like what happened to your wife."

L didn't look at him, trying to figure out a way to balance her spoon on the flower somehow, but a wide, closed smile spread across Quillsh's face.

"You're a very clever one," he said. "I would support you, indeed."

"Okay," L said, smiling, and stabbed the spoon into the napkin, causing it to stand upright like a sort of strange, silver monolith. "Then, when we get home, we should talk about it. Or on the way there. Can we go to a bookstore now?"

"Indeed," Quillsh said, and they left the café together, L holding to his hand, smiling.

The bookstore they found opened in front of L like a treasure box, and Quillsh simply sat with her coat as she wandered about, and he read a newspaper. He felt a small tug on his sleeve as she came up to him, arms full of comics and books, about an hour later.

"What's this, now?" he said.

"I want these," she said, showing them to him. Quillsh took a quick look at them, a little confused at the strange titles she had presented to him in her search.

"Let's see... Swamp Thing... Watchmen? V for Vendetta? Are these comic books?" he asked, and L nodded.

"I looked all through the comic books, and these are the only ones that seem any good," she said. "I don't like the ones with stupid costumes and capes and things. It's so unrealistic. But these look much better. I really like the V one, I got all the issues I could find."

"Is that so? I'll buy them for you, then," Quillsh said, and chuckled to find at least three Nancy Drew books beneath the comics.

L smiled, and said (in an almost endearing manner), "Thank you."

Quillsh had L explain the plots of the comics on the train home, as he had absolutely no idea what any of them were about. There had been Superman and Batman comics from years ago, he remembered, but he had no idea who these strange newcomers were. L hadn't read enough of Watchmen to explain what it was about, but she said Swamp Thing looked "promising." She refused to comment on the Nancy Drew, although Quillsh knew that she just loved reading them.

V for Vendetta, however, she was extremely excited over.

"This person, V," she said, flipping through the pages of the thin issue, "is a revolutionary. Anarchist. I don't support anarchy, but I suppose if he overthrew the government, it would be just fine." She gave a delighted little smile. "Anyways. Stop laughing!" Quillsh stopped laughing at her enthusiasm, but continued to smile. "It's not so much his ideals, but how he carries things out that I like the most. The way he uses that mask, his name. His name's a lot like mine."

"Using only a letter?" Quillsh said, and she nodded.

"Only, that's not his real name, I think," L said, and very quickly pointed her finger, almost like the thing were attached to a spring. "But my real name is L, and nobody would suspect that if I were to become a detective. People would never guess." Her smile grew wider. "It's the perfect disguise, right?"

"Do you expect to wear a mask in public, then?" Quillsh said, laughing. L shook her head.

"No. But we'll figure out something," she said. "Maybe television? That's what V used."

Quillsh chuckled. "We'll see," he said. "You'll have to learn how to solve cases without actually being there, though, if you really wish to stay anonymous, but credible."

"I'm sure I can do it," L said. Her eyes suddenly grew wider, and she plastered herself against the window of the train. "Oh, look! It's snowing."

Indeed it was, small flakes drifting from the increasingly gray pale sky onto the bare earth. L smiled.

"It's pretty," she said.

"Indeed it is," Quillsh replied.

-///-

L was happy, for the most part, until she stepped off the train. A sort of fear seemed to grip her step as she protectively wrapped the comics within her jacket, and held Quillsh's hand, not letting go.

She had stopped unexpectedly before entering the front gates of the Winchester house with him, and tightly squeezed his hand.

"What's the matter?" he asked her.

"I'm... a little unsure," she said. "Should I really be doing this?"

"If it's what you want, I'll support you every step of the way," he said. L squeezed his hand tighter, as the bells began to toll.

"Okay."


	8. The Naming of the Virgin Goddess

"Imagine a scene, L," Quillsh said.

And L closed her eyes, imagining it as the words touched her ears.

"A man is dead, after a violent illness. He was ill for several days to weeks, the symptoms being mostly nausea, weakness, and headaches."

"Who was this man? Describe him," L said. Her eyes were still closed.

"He was in his early to mid-30's. Handsome, a romantic. Somewhat, but not entirely, wealthy."

In other words, a cad. "Where did he die?"

"His bedroom."

Ironic place to die. "Any photographs of the scene?" Several of these theoretical cases had staged photographs that went with them.

After all, L was in training. She had been for the past few months.

Quills would bring her case files, testimonies, photographs, sometimes even video―as little as possible, in order to solve cases anonymously, as L wanted to do. The key to the matter was figuring out as much as possible, without actually needing to be there.

A file was placed in her hands, and she opened her eyes. Obviously, a staged photograph―she recognized the bedroom as one from the Winchester house, but it made no difference to her. Most of the photographs given to her were staged, anyways. It was only training.

She saw the corpse in his bed, a mug at his bedside, a photograph, books everywhere, curtained windows, a doctor peering plaintively from the door frame, a kettle of some kind, an abandoned blanket, a bucket full of sick. The story gained more depth.

"Those books," she said, pointing to them. Quillsh leaned over and saw where her finger was. "Is one of them a diary?"

"Yes, it is," Quillsh replied. "And you can tell by how...?"

"Far more elaborate than the rest, and the ribbon sticking out of the spine. See, there?" she said, tracing the barely-visible ribbon. "Is a copy of it available?"

"Yes, indeed," Quillsh said, and produced from the large box of "evidence" for the "case" a photocopy of the diary's pages. "You're in luck, he began a new one each year. He died in March."

"I see," L said, and began flipping through the diary to his last entries. She skimmed over them, quickly. "He mentions getting sick a lot."

"And what do you make of that?" Quillsh said. L continued to read.

"Nothing, yet," she said. "It's unusual, though." She flipped through the pages, and an eyebrow raised. "Who is this Evangeline woman?" she asked.

"Pardon?" said Quillsh.

L folded back one of the pages and trust a passage of writing towards him, pointing to a name. "This Evangeline woman," she said. "It sounds like her and this man were rather close. Before breaking up. Correct?"

"That appears to be the case," Quillsh said, feigning thoughtfulness.

Of course it would appear to be the case. L frowned as she continued backwards. "My, my, they certainly were intimate," she said dryly, as the diary entries delightfully and vaguely recounted the meetings between the man and Evangeline. "He's an awful writer."

"It's a diary," Quillsh said, smiling a little embarrassedly, "you can't expect it to be a novel."

An apology from him, no doubt; this _was_ a fabricated case, anyways. Quillsh was a smart man, but his writing skills were more than questionable. "No, I guess I can't," she replied, and flipped to the end of the diary. "Evangeline is, no doubt, the first person suspect?"

"Yes, the first one interrogated by the police, outside of the man's family," Quillsh replied. "What makes you say that?"

"There's somewhat of a motive. If my guesses are correct, this man was an absolute annoyance to her and just about anyone else he encountered," she said. "Dreadfully clingy. Just listen to this." She flipped to a page that was marked with her finger and began to read in a ridiculously inappropriate monotone. "'Oh, how I miss my dearest Eva. It's been nearly two weeks since I last heard from her, or even seen her beautiful, delicate face...' et cetera, et cetera. Makes me sick."

"I see," Quillsh said, smiling a little.

"Anyone would want to be rid of such a problem," L continued, returning to the final pages of the diary, "unless they were absolutely mad. From what's written in here, this Evangeline woman wanted more than to be rid of this man. Whoever he is. So, a motive."

Frowning, she flipped through the copy of the diary again, and her left leg sneaked up to her chair. "Hm. So, what means could she possibly have used?" she muttered to herself, and looked at Quillsh. "Get me any sort of testimony Evangeline might have made, as well. Are there autopsy reports available?"

"Of course," Quillsh said, and neatly laid the documents, in crisp manila folders, in front of L as she read and re-read passages of the diary.

She took up the autopsy report in her other hand after a while, and skimmed it quickly, before finding something. "Death of arsenic poisoning, huh?" she said, and returned to the diary. "My, I wonder..."

"Wonder what?" said Quillsh.

She continued to read the diary, before a brief, electric smile graced her face, and she pointed towards a series of passages that took place in February. "Evangeline, it seems, was poisoning him," she said. "You see this here? Each time he visits her, he reports being ill. Still..." she said, and glanced sideways as she chewed on her thumb for a moment. "Hand me her testimony, please."

Quillsh did so, and L went about reading it, swiftly, much like she did the diary. "So the police came to the same conclusion as I," she eventually said, even though the police weren't real. "They're asking her about what she served him every night."

"Indeed," said Quillsh. "And her reply?"

She glanced at him, wishing he would stop the act for a moment, then speaking. "That she's not poisoning him at all," she said. "Even though arsenic was found in her home. Says it's for poisoning rats."

"So, logically, she's the suspect, as you said," Quillsh said.

"Reaffirming my hunch, yes," L replied, and returned to the diary. Something else caught her eye. "Interesting..." she said, and picked up the photograph. "What was in this mug?" she asked, pointing to the china cup that rested on the bedside table. "Is there a report?"

"Hot chocolate, I believe," Quillsh said, producing a list of evidence at the scene, his eyes flitting over it. "Yes, it's hot chocolate."

"Hm," L said, and looked up. "Well, that's it, then. This man, whoever he is, poisoned himself in a very, very slow suicide."

Quillsh's eyes widened. "Is that what you believe?"

L nodded. "Absolutely. It's far too suspicious," she said. "If you want to frame someone for murder by poisoning, what better way than to implicate them through a diary?"

Shrugging, Quillsh said, "It's an interesting way to go about it."

"The diary itself is far too specific and obvious in implicating that Evangeline was the culprit," L said, pointing towards the thing as she held it up. "Even if she had arsenic in her home as rat poison. I would test rats around the home for arsenic poisoning as well, to see if her excuse holds up. I bet it does."

"And what else have you gleaned from this?" Quillsh asked, his smile growing wider. L could already tell that she had won.

"From what I read in the diary, the fracture of the relationship between this man and Evangeline was very violent," L said, flipping through the stapled copy of the diary. "I can tell, because his writing becomes a lot more unnecessarily flowery and whatever when he gets upset. Very stupid." She smiled slightly. "He's got even more of a motive to get revenge on her. Plus, he'd be rather depressed by this whole turn of events, wouldn't he?"

"Surely," Quillsh said. "Tell me, though, why was the hot chocolate at his bedside important?"

"I don't know," L said, shrugging. "It just reminded me that he was poisoned. And if he was ill, and they didn't know he was poisoned, wouldn't he be taking water with medicine, instead?"

"Logically, yes," Quillsh said.

"Then that means," L said, smiling more as she realized what she had inadvertently discovered, "he was feeding himself arsenic through the hot chocolate, where he didn't have to taste it."

"Indeed," Quillsh said, smiling warmly.

"So, Evangeline is wholly innocent," L concluded, grabbing her other leg and nodding. "Unless you think it's a crime to break the heart of an annoying man. Right?"

"I suppose," said Quillsh. "Is that all?"

"Absolutely," L replied.

Quillsh thoughtfully took the evidence back from L, put them into their manila folders, and set it away. "You're finally ready," he said.

"Huh?" L said, tilting her head. "Ready for what?"

"Your career," Quillsh replied.

-///-

"What, so he gave you a real case?" Josiah said from his chair, after L requested he be brought to her room later that evening. "After a whole bunch of fake ones?"

"So it would seem, somehow," L said. She was making her bed, having rumpled it quite nicely by walking all over the coverlet, trying to keep all her energy towards productive matters in her excitement. "It's a real case, but the evidence was made to look like he had just made it up for me, like the rest."

"I see!" said Josiah. "So what are you going to do about it?"

L readjusted the pillows. "Find a way to make a name for myself," she said.

"A name for yourself?" Josiah said. She nodded.

"Quillsh is going to find a way to get me known in the detective, federal, et cetera... world," L replied. "Find a way for me to get access to current cases, instead of just closed ones and cold ones."

"Oh, that's exciting!" Josiah said, nodding and smiling as L proceeded to tap her foot impatiently on the ground and look for something to do. "So, how's he going at it?"

"No idea," L said. "He's currently talking with Roger about it." She pinched her chin in thought for a moment, then sat on the bed.

"You're certainly fidgety," Josiah, when she began kicking her legs. "Excited?"

"Definitely," L said. She fell on her back, and sighed. "How long has it been since October?"

"Five months?" said Josiah. L sighed again.

"Only that long..." she said. Her eyes followed the steady rotation of the ceiling fan for a while. "That long to do all that training. Glad I was over and done with it quickly, though."

"Are you?" said Josiah. L did nothing. "Well, if that's what you say."

There was a knock on the door, and Quillsh entered. "L, would you please come to my office? Roger and I need to speak with you."

"Okay," L said. "Sorry, you," she told Josiah, "I'll be back later."

Josiah winked at her and smiled. "Good luck!"

L shrugged as she went on her way, and joined Quillsh in his office with Roger. "So, what are we going to do?" she said. All of them were standing.

"I have an idea of what we'll do," Quillsh said. "Roger, elaborate."

"We'll introduce you through a television signal, when Quillsh goes to meet with Scotland Yard about the case you solved," Roger said. "We can prepare a microphone and send it with an image on a screen. He'll carry a camera so you can communicate with them as you wish." He reached behind him and pulled out a white piece of paper, with a large black L written on it in lovely, Gothic script. "We were thinking of using this, what do you think?"

L tilted her head as she looked at the thing. "It's all right," she said, utterly loving how intimidating it looked. "We can use that. Who came up with the idea of using that sort of L, though?"

"That would be Quillsh," Roger said, smiling at them as he put the sign away. "He thought it suited you."

"Thank you," she said, smiling, then frowning. "Wait, did you say you're going to Scotland Yard with this?"

"You heard me correctly," Quillsh smiled, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little, his hands in his pockets. "Why?"

"You can't possibly go as 'yourself,'" L said. "Don't you think that'll compromise our privacy?"

"Privacy?" Roger and Quillsh both said.

"You're a famous inventor and millionaire," L said, crossing her arms and glancing over them both as if they were children. "People will want to know how you know me. You need to be anonymous."

"And how do you suppose we do that?" Roger said, sighing slightly. "We need a way to get in contact with Scotland Yard in the first place."

"Easy. Wear a mask, or something," L said flatly.

"I'm afraid I can't rightly do that..." Quillsh said, smiling slightly and scratching the back of his head.

"Then a trenchcoat and hat will suffice," L said, putting her finger on her chin as she thought. "Just something to obscure your face, but not look increasingly odd. Don't you think?"

"Yes, but we still need to get into Scotland Yard," Roger said. "They won't so much as listen to us without good reason."

"Then say that you have information on the cold case I solved," L said. She crossed her arms again. "It's not as hard as you're making it out to be, Roger."

"Then we need another alias..." he sighed, "...seeing as we don't need one for you, L."

"No, we've already discussed that," L said. A tone of impatience seeped into her voice. She began tapping her foot again. "...wait a minute, I have an idea."

"Idea for what?" Quillsh said.

"Your alias," she said, with a smile. "How do you like Watari?"

"Watari? Why Watari?" Quillsh said, blinking.

"It's simple," L said. Her chin fell, and she looked at him from the top of her eyes. "You always make that one mistake when we study Japanese. You always say 'Watari wa...' instead of 'Watashi wa...' don't you?"

They had been studying Japanese for the past month or two, after getting past German and a little bit of Russian. His frequent mistake had become a bit of a pet peeve of hers, and it didn't surprise him that she would choose such a word as his alias. "I quite like the ring of it," he said. "What do you think, Roger?"

"I don't mind," Roger replied, honestly.

"It begins with the same letter as your last name, too," L said cheekily. "So, you could call yourself W, just as well. Right?"

"I suppose I could," said Quillsh. "Watari it is."

Knocking her knees together and glancing at the ceiling for a moment, L looked at Roger and said, "Well, if I'm going in front of Scotland Yard, I need something decent to say. Let's get on it."

-///-

A dark figure in a long overcoat waited in a corridor somewhere in Scotland Yard, heavily laden with equiptment. Most of it lay on a rolling cart with a television sitting atop it, along with a video camera below attached by cables. Although it could not be seen, the figure was anxious.

The door to the meeting room it was waiting for opened, and a highly-decorated police official with a bald head peered his head through the door. "Uh, Mr. Watari? We're ready to see you now."

"Just Watari," the man replied, and wheeled the cart into the room, where the rest of the officials for the hearing were seated. In silence, he plugged the television, the camera into the electrical socket, but left both of them off.

The bald official sat back down, and looked over the form that represented the request he had received that morning. "Now, Mr. Watari, thank you for coming today. Would you like to take off your coat?"

"No, thank you," Watari replied.

"Right." The official cleared his throat. "Now, you say you have information regarding the Alaeonzo Murder?" he said, in the highly skeptical manner of a scientist, although he was a police officer.

"Not I," Watari replied. "It is my associate, L, who has this information."

"L...?" another official said, expecting a last name. He did not receive further information. "L who...?" he said again.

"Just L, as in the letter," Watari said. "My associate is a very cautious person, hence the abbreviation." His words strayed and dashed far from the pronouns L hated.

"So I see," the bald man said. "Is this... L with you?"

"Through the power of technology, yes," Watari said, and turned the television on. It was tuned to a specialized signal that only the Winchester house was able to transmit (thanks to a little tinkering from Quillsh), and with an almost eerie crackle of static, the gothic, black L appeared on the screen.

"You will be able to speak with L through this camera," Watari said, placing it beside the screen as the officials turned to each other and twittered, confused and fascinated at the same time. "Consequently, L will be able to hear and see what you are saying."

The camera was turned on, and Watari said, "L, you may speak now."

"Thank you, Watari. Good day, gentlemen," the warped, distorted voice spoke through the television. "Thank you for allowing me to speak with you today."

"I am L, and I know who killed Emilon Alaeonzo."


End file.
